


Turnabout Dungeons (and Dragons)

by Synthpop



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Gen, Gyakuten Saiban 6 | Spirit of Justice Spoilers, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Gyakuten Saiban 5 | Dual Destinies, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 91,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthpop/pseuds/Synthpop
Summary: According to Mr. Wright, Dungeons and Dragons is good, if not crucial, for cultivating trusting relationships between friends and coworkers. Apollo has his doubts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General housekeeping:
> 
> 1\. This fic as a whole will contain major spoilers for SOJ. Be warned!  
> 2\. I know that Ema and Athena meet for the first time in 6-2, but that’s stupid and I’m ignoring it.  
> 3\. This fic is going to revolve around D&D 5E. That doesn’t line-up with the AA timeline, I’m aware, but I hope you can find it within your heart to, uh, forgive me.  
> ...to be continued. I promise.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

Apollo hated clutter. He hated dust, he hated grime, and he hated any sort of organizational system that wasn’t approved, and strongly recommended, by Martha Stewart. 

Naturally, he hated the pigsty that was the Wright Anything Agency with a red-hot, burning passion. 

“Hate” was a derisive word, though—and admittedly, probably not the correct one. The office had character; over his two years of working there, he had, at the very least, gotten _used_ to it. It was messy, yes. Musty and always slightly salt-broth scented, hell yes. But he could locate everything important fairly easily, and its distinctive layout tended to be popular with clients. So, maybe it wasn’t _completely_ irredeemable. 

“Polly,” Trucy Wright had said a few hours earlier, her hands on her hips and her cheeks puffing from Apollo’s peripheral vision, “move your jacket.” 

“Jacket?” Apollo had responded, having been preoccupied with the manila-wreathed case files spread out on the floor in front of him. 

“You know, this… _loud_ one! You can’t just drape it over the back of the couch!” She picked up the bright red suit blazer and beat it out, sending dust particles scattering onto the air-conditioned breeze. “I do important magic stuff here! Move it, or it’ll end up like Daddy’s hoodie—lost to the magical void!” 

In that instant, a horrible realization swept through Apollo Justice—a realization that made his innards twist, his head pound, and his fists clench. 

Oh god, he was turning into a Wright. 

It was then that he decided he needed to clean. And clean _well_.   

“Do you need this?” Apollo asked, holding up the plastic model of floating spaghetti that always sat on the main table. For some reason, the model _smelled_ like tomato sauce, too. And garlic. He wondered if that had always been the case, or if his hunger was making him hallucinate (he had been cleaning for at least two hours straight, after all). 

“Yes.” Trucy’s response came with a definitive nod. She was planted on the couch in the center of the room, shuffling a deck of red-framed playing cards back and forth between her gloved hands.  

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you need this.” 

“I need it!” Trucy, indeed, met his eyes, and she pointed the deck of cards accusingly at him. “It’s a real crowd-pleaser! A great conversation piece! I’m sorry if your muggle mind can’t wrap itself around that, Polly!”  

Apollo, figuring that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with logical reasoning (not when Trucy’s gaze was _that_ steadfast), rolled his eyes and tossed the spaghetti plate into the “Trucy Says It Shouldn’t Be Thrown Away, But Common Sense Dictates Otherwise” pile. Which was, unfortunately, the only pile present. 

The entirety of the Wright Anything Agency had been ransacked, with every piece of furniture turned over, inside out, and then dusted thoroughly from top to bottom. Cabinets were gutted, plants were brushed clean, and law files (and magic books) were reorganized into proper alphabetical order. As soon as he finished sorting through _this_ final cabinet, Apollo could officially say that he was done, and he could work on putting the place back together. Hopefully he would be able to finish before Mr. Wright got home—wait, no, not _got home_! The office wasn’t his _house_ , damn it! It was that kind of thinking that made the place such a rat’s nest to begin with! 

“Polly,” Trucy said, concern in her voice, “if you clutch that Swiffer any tighter, you’re going to snap the poor thing in half.” 

Apollo restrained himself and forced his fists to unclench. Damn it, he couldn’t let himself get distracted—he needed to finish what he had started!  

With Swiffer in one hand, Endust in the other, Apollo scrubbed the dusty grime off of the top of the cabinet he was currently sitting cross-legged in front of. “Cabinet” might have been giving the thing too much credit, though—it was actually one of Trucy’s magical props, presumably once used to saw beautiful women in half.  

Apollo opened the final drawer with perhaps too much ferocity, for a thick cloud of dust puffed up into the air, completely coating the front of his white undershirt in ancient gunk. His nose tickled and, before he could control himself, a deafening sneeze surged through his chest and rattled every piece of furniture in the joint. 

“Ugh,” Apollo whined. “This is disgusting.” 

“I’ll say. You should cover your mouth when you sneeze, you know. Unless blowing snot everywhere was your intention…?” 

“Not that!” Apollo brushed his nose clean with the arm of his sleeve. “All of this _dust_! When was the last time you even opened this drawer?”

He took the Swiffer to the outer rims of the cabinet. More tiny dust mites danced up into the air, silhouetted by the dying light of the setting sun streaming in through the windows.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Apollo saw Trucy rise from her spot on the couch and stretch her arms up over her head.

“That drawer is Daddy’s. Only the top two belong to me and my magic business!” She skipped around the upturned furniture and kneeled down to join Apollo on the floor, brown eyes bright with curiosity. “I wonder what kind of stuff he has in here…? Maybe it’s stuff he’ll be angry at you for rifling through!” 

“Hey,” Apollo muttered with a sidelong glance her direction, “you got up _just_ to snoop.” 

“I’m helping clean, silly!” 

“Oh, like you’ve been helping for the past two hours?” 

She stuck out her tongue.  

“Let’s see what secrets Daddy’s hiding, shall we?” Trucy craned her body to reach inside the drawer. With a grunt, she managed to pull out a pile of various, eclectically-shaped and horribly-dusty boxes from out of the interior.  

“Oh, what do we have here?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye. 

The boxes were stacked in a convoluted and haphazard manner, and when Trucy set them down on the floor, some of their lids popped open. Dozens of playing cards, plastic miniatures, cardboard squares, and paper pamphlets came careening onto the carpet. 

“…Trucy!” Apollo cried. “You _spilled_ them!” 

“Ahhhh—that wasn’t my fault! They were like that when I took them out, I swear!” 

“Ugh… now you have to help me pick all of this stuff up!” 

“B-but—it all got mixed together! What goes into which box…?” 

Good question. As Apollo gathered the scattered pieces, he realized what, exactly, the boxes were for. They were board games: titles a couple of decades old, with faded labels and deteriorating cardboard boxes.

Well, he assumed the metal tokens went into the _Monopoly_ box—he’d played that one before. The envelopes went into _Clue_ , of course. What were the _cards_ for, though? They were covered in pictures of fantasy creatures, with epic names branded across the tops. Some sort of strategy game…? But which box did that belong to? 

“J-just guess,” Apollo finally decided. “It’s not like these things have been touched recently. Mr. Wright will never know.” 

“Oh my gosh, Polly,” Trucy said with a tug on Apollo’s sleeve. “Look what I found!” 

Apollo reluctantly tore his gaze away from the mess. In Trucy’s hands was a large, faded red book, with its pages torn, dog-eared, and creased. It only seemed to be held together by the force of Trucy holding it up for him to see—if she opened it, all of the pages would surely flitter out and away, and there was no way he was going to pick all of _that_ up. 

“It’s dusty,” he said, holding out the Swiffer for Trucy to take. 

“Look at the cover!” 

Apollo examined it closer. The red, he realized, came together to form the image of some sort of great, roaring beast, garbed from head to giant-sized toe in the bones and fur of some unknown creature. A woman wielding a spear leapt towards it, blue aura crackling in between her fingertips and a determined look stern on her countenance.  

“A fantasy novel?” Apollo guessed. “It’s pretty big for a novel, though.” 

“The _title_ , dummy!”  

Above the beast and fighter was white text: “ _PLAYER’S HANDBOOK._ ” Below that, near the bottom of the cover, were the words, “ _Everything a player needs to create heroic characters for the world’s greatest roleplaying game._ ” 

Apollo stared for a moment or two, before the dots slowly connected in his brain to form one coherent, if not incredibly confusing, singular image. 

“Mr. Wright played _Dungeons and Dragons_?” he asked, incredulous. “W- _what_? When did he have the time? How old is this book?!” 

“About twenty-five years, give or take.” 

Apollo and Trucy both flinched at the sound of the new voice from the doorway. Hey, Apollo thought—Mr. Wright wasn’t supposed to be back for a couple more hours! Wait, what time was it, again? He had been cleaning for so long… ugh, maybe he had lost track of time. 

Trucy, meanwhile, gave the nervously-twitching Apollo a sly smile and even coyer wink, before slowly turning all the way around. 

“Daddy!” she greeted. “You’re home! You’re just in time—Polly’s cleaning!” 

In the main doorway of the office stood Phoenix Wright, attorney at law, looking moderately disheveled and oh-so exhausted. His blue suit was wrinkled, his eyelids droopy, and his hair—usually impeccably styled—had a few flyaways frizzing in every which way. Seeing the current state of the office didn’t appear to be doing any wonders for his mood, either. 

“I can see that,” he said, teeth half-clenched. 

“And he’s rifling through your stuff!” 

“ _Hey_!” Apollo cried. “It’s not like that! I was just—tidying up, that’s all—” 

“No, no. It’s fine. As long as you don’t throw anything important away, right?” Mr. Wright smiled. His smiles all seemed incredibly tired recently, Apollo had noticed—but he didn’t figure it was his place to say anything about it. If it developed into an issue, Athena would take care of it with one of her psychological evaluations. 

Trucy got up off the ground and galloped over to her father’s side. “We found this in the bottom drawer of the divider!” She pushed the book out from her chest. “You used to roleplay? I didn’t know you were such a nerd, Daddy!” 

Mr. Wright laughed, good-humoredly. “Well, it was a hobby of mine. I’ve been playing since I was a kid. I played it in grade school, high school, college… a little bit in my lawyering years, too.” 

Lawyering years, Apollo thought. As if his current years _weren’t_ his “lawyering years.” 

“You had enough time to goof off, even back then?” Apollo asked, more to himself than anyone else. 

Mr. Wright’s ears were honed, though, and his eyes gleamed as he met Apollo’s gaze. “I have more than enough time to goof off _now_ , don’t I?” His chuckle this time was more mischievous than lighthearted—like he knew something Apollo didn’t (he had heard that chuckle _far_ too often for his liking). “Besides, I wouldn’t call it ‘goofing off.’ You’d be surprised how good those types of games are with strengthening trusting relationships, business or otherwise.” 

Trucy frowned. “Why didn’t you ever play it with me?”

“Huh?” Mr. Wright scratched his chin as he made his way farther into the office. He stepped carefully over all of the furniture and files, before finally settling down in the middle of the couch—right where Trucy had been lounging before. “Hmm, I don’t know. You kind of need a lot of people to play it, so I guess it never came up.” 

“How many people, exactly?”  

Apollo didn’t like where this conversation was heading.  

“If you’re done looking at it, I can put it back,” he suggested, maybe a bit too quickly. Mr. Wright’s lips quirked ever-so-slightly at his flustered words. “U-uh, I’ve already dusted all of the other stuff in here, so we can put it back, and… and then I’ll finish cleaning. I’ll put everything back before I head off for the night, I promise.” 

Mr. Wright focused his attention on his daughter. “Hmm, well. Technically, you can play with any number of people… but I’ve always found four to five to be a good amount.” 

Trucy’s bright smile was starting to burn Apollo’s eyes. “We have four people! There’s me, you, Polly, and Athena!” 

“Seriously,” Apollo tried again, his voice raising in Chords-of-Steel-trained volume. “I can put it away. Like, any time. It’s fine.” 

Mr. Wright continued, “That’s technically only three people. Do you know how these games work, Truce?” 

“Kind of! Some of my friends have talked about it at school. We all make cool characters… and then we dress up as them, go out into the middle of the woods, and then shout stuff like, ‘Lightning Bolt!’ as we throw water balloons at one another, right?” 

“…I think you’re thinking of a different type of game.” 

Apollo was being ignored. 

He gritted his teeth together. Uh-uh, no way—he wasn’t about to get roped into playing a _roleplaying_ game with his coworkers. Not when there was actual work to do, anyway. He had to stop this before it could escalate any further. 

“Hey—” 

“—Everybody, I’m home!” 

Oh good, the gang was back together again.

Athena Cykes bounded in through the already-open doorway, her garishly-colored yellow suit and skirt combo visible from outer space. “I’m back from my investi—whoa!” As soon as she noticed the state of the room, her smile fled from her face. “What’s going on in here? We’re cleaning _again_? B-but we cleaned the office _last_ month….” 

“Hey,” Apollo countered, “at least I _try_ to maintain a little bit of professionalism.” 

“Welcome back, Athena!” Trucy waved. 

“Athena,” Mr. Wright said with a little nod. “How’d the investigation go? Sorry I couldn’t tag along—business, you know.” 

Athena tore her attention away from the chaos to give her boss a confident, V-for-Victory pose with her right hand. “It went great! I talked to a whole lot of witnesses and got a whole lot of evidence! Ema’s the main detective on this one, so she’s being super nice to me.” She tilted her head, thinking back to a time or a place inaccessible to anyone else in the room. “It’s sad to say, but I think this is my first… non-murder case. It’s weird! In all honesty, I’m kind of hoping a dead body turns up at the trial in a few days! Wah-hah-hah….” 

“Why would you _ever_ say that?” Apollo mumbled beneath his breath. 

“It’s a robbery case, yes?” asked Mr. Wright. 

“Yeah, for a Mr. Elan Crawlnober. It’s so weird—he’s already admitted his guilt, but… it’s completely obvious he didn’t rob that bar! He keeps going on and on about being the ‘greatest thief in the land,’ and being so ‘cruel’ and ‘ruthless,’ and it’s kind of grindin’ my gears!” Athena shook her head, perhaps in an attempt to clear her thoughts. “Ugh, it’s always the weirdos, isn’t it…?” 

“I’m sure there’s a reason for the strange behavior,” Mr. Wright said, and scooted over so there was room for Athena on the couch. She took the invitation, gratefully. “And I’m sure whatever that reason is will be revealed in court.” 

Athena sighed as she sank deeper into the plush cushions. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, enough about me—what’s poppin’ over here? Other than Apollo the Maid.” 

Apollo’s skin prickled at that, but he swallowed his annoyance and refused to say anything petty. Verbally, at least.  

“We’re going to play _Dungeons and Dragons_!” Trucy shouted. She held the book out in front of her, practically shoving it into Athena’s face. 

“…What?” Athena scrutinized the cover with a full-fledged frown. “What did you do, Justice? You wound back time to 1985.” 

“ _What a dweeb_!” Widget added from around her neck. 

“I _cleaned_! There’s nothing wrong with _cleaning_ , guys!” 

“We don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” said Mr. Wright.  When Trucy gave him a cutthroat glare, he amended, “W-well, I wouldn’t want to distract Athena from her case.”  

Athena thought in silence for a second or two, before a string of dark, odious chuckles rolled from her lips. Her gaze hardened in Apollo’s direction. “Hey, what’s wrong, Apollo? You want to play, don’t you?” 

Apollo wasn’t exactly sure what expression he was wearing, but judging from Athena’s snickers, he assumed it wasn’t a very professional one. 

“It’s not—I just—I, uh, don’t really have time for games,” Apollo said, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. He had never been a big “game” person; at least, not ones of the board variety. You usually couldn’t play those with only two people. “Mr. Wright’s… right. We shouldn’t let Athena get distracted before her big case.” 

“Ridiculous! Me, distracted? Who do you think I am?” Athena shook her head. “I think it might be fun! The trial isn’t for a few days… and it might be a nice way to take my mind off of things!” 

“You mean a nice way to slack off.” 

“Slacking off is good for the brain in moderation! They say that for every fifteen minutes of work you do, you should relax with at least five minutes of play. And with how much I’ve been working recently, I think I’ve accumulated a whole lot of playtime!” Athena hooted out another laugh. With teeth that sharp, and a voice that loud—her complexion and character reminded Apollo of that of a wolf. Or an extremely obnoxious, bright-yellow cockatiel. 

“C-cockatiel?! Hey, those are big words coming from you, you… _pollo_! Chicken-head!” 

Trucy, still hovering near Athena and Mr. Wright, tucked the _Dungeons and Dragons_ book under one arm and hooked her other hand onto the crook of her hip. “No fighting!” She turned towards her father with a grimace. “See, Daddy? We need to play this game! It’ll help build trust within the agency!” 

Apollo grumbled, “What do you mean? I trust everybody perfectly fine—” 

“You have a point,” Mr. Wright said, cutting him off. 

“And I’m all for it,” Athena added. “We could use some good ol’ Wright Anything Agency bonding! Who knows, Apollo; maybe our minds will get all synchronized if we play this game together! And we’ll totally kick butt at the Crawlnober trial!” Ugh, that smile was back. She nodded her head resolutely, and her massive, orange locks bounced along with the motion.  

“…It’s your trial, not mine. I’m just coming with you so Prosecutor Blackquill doesn’t make you cry.” 

“There you go again—!” 

“Hey, now.” Mr. Wright swiftly butted into the conversation. Despite Apollo wanting to say something snippy to Athena in return (and he had a great comeback prepared, mind you!), whenever Mr. Wright spoke, he felt obligated to shut his mouth. The man commanded authority, even despite Apollo knowing that he was only bluffing most of the time. 

“I think it might be fun,” Mr. Wright continued. “We should get in some quality time together—before I leave for that… trip.” 

Trip. Apollo shuddered to think about it. Not because of Mr. Wright leaving—the office would be a lot quieter without him around (and hey, maybe he could actually get in some _real_ cleaning without Mr. Wright getting all sentimental about some piece of junk)—but because of…. 

“To Khura’in? Man, it’s already that soon?” Athena asked. 

Yeah, because of _Khura’in_. But that was neither here nor there, and he didn’t particularly care to dwell on it.  

He could’ve sworn he saw Trucy take a glance at him, but when he looked up at her, she was too busy rifling through the handbook to have been paying him any attention. 

“It’s a handful of weeks away, yes.” Mr. Wright hummed to himself and stared off into a random corner of the room. He—he wasn’t staring at the _plant_ , right? “It’ll take me a few days to get everything prepared for the game; it’s a little bit… complicated, after all. I’ll be happy to play the role of game-master, since I’m the most experienced. Let’s aim for, let’s say… Friday?” He brought his gaze back to the group and offered a slanted smile. “I’ll make a suggestion, though: you guys should probably invite some friends.” 

“Friends?” Trucy repeated. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “But I thought we were going to play it as an agency!” 

“We can. But, like I said before— _Dungeons and Dragons_ is something better experienced with more people.” He pointed at Trucy, then Athena, then Apollo—as if counting them. “Let’s see… if you all brought one friend along, that would be six people. That’s a good number. The standard party is of five, but I can manage six. I'm a little rusty, though….” 

“ _Sweet_!” Athena immediately sat up straight and reached into her pocket. “I’m texting Junie! Oh, or should I text Jinxie?! Maybe Robin or Hugh would want to come?” 

“Ah, who should I invite?!” Whatever worry or disappointment Trucy had felt before seemed to have entirely dissipated as soon as Athena had brought out her phone. She, too, whipped out her own device (seemingly from thin air, Apollo noted). “There’s this cute girl I’ve been working with during my magic routine—would she like to come? Hmm… Mr. Reus probably isn’t the type. Do you think Pearls can make it here on such short notice, Daddy?” 

Mr. Wright’s mouth dropped slack. “I said _one_ friend, guys….” 

“Polly!” Trucy rounded on him suddenly, causing Apollo to jolt upright in surprise (even from his position still planted on the floor). “Who do you think you’ll bring? Oh, maybe you can invite Ema!” 

The thought of asking _Ema Skye_ , with her munch-munch-munching and her ever-present scowl, to play _Dungeons and Dragons_ with the _Wright Anything Agency_ was too much to bear. 

“Thanks,” Apollo muttered, “but I think I’ll… pass.” 

“You can’t _pass_ , Polly! This is something we’re going to do as a family!” 

Athena looked up from her phone. “F-family?” A light blush was starting to rise on her cheeks. 

“Well, you’re both inviting friends, right?” said Apollo. “You’ll have enough people. I should probably brief myself more on the Crawlnober case, anyway. I need to look over Athena’s notes—” 

“You _have_ to play!” Trucy balled her free hand into a fist. “If Polly doesn’t play, then I’m not going to, either!” 

That made Athena snap to attention. “What the heck, Apollo?! You can’t just ruin our _family_ bonding like that!” She put way too much emphasis on the word _family_ , and her lips trembled into a crooked, too-pleased grin as soon as the sound left them.  

“What kind of monster ruins family bonding like that…?” 

Apollo wheezed. “M-Mr. Wright, not you too!” 

“I’m just saying.” 

The three pairs of eyes on him made Apollo want to curl up into a ball. Were they really serious? They had so much stuff to get done, especially with Athena’s case and Mr. Wright leaving for—ah, _abroad_ in a few weeks’ time. They didn’t have time to play games. 

…But, with Athena’s gruesome glare, Trucy’s pleading frown, and Mr. Wright’s half-amused grin, he found that his resolve wore down pretty quickly. 

“…Well,” he said after a while of silent deliberating, “it’s just one game, right? How bad could it possibly be?” 

As Athena and Trucy rejoiced, Apollo vaguely wondered why Mr. Wright was snickering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody. Welcome to Synthpop’s Convoluted, Nerdy, And All-In-All Pretty Fucking Terrible Wild Ride. Pull up a chair: it’s going to be a long, long trip.
> 
> So, upon rereading this… monstrosity, I’m aware that it isn’t really written all that well. This is my first time juggling so many characters in one sitting. So, uh, I’m choosing to think of this as practice rather than a finely-polished masterpiece. If you think that, too… maybe you’ll be able to enjoy it more! ^^;
> 
> This will hopefully be updated on a weekly to bi-weekly basis. I’d say about 75% of the fic is already in writing -- it just needs to be proofed, and… well, finished. It’s only me here, editing what's already an exceptional amount of words, so if there’s spelling or grammar issues… please forgive me!
> 
> This is supposed to be light, fluffy, and goofy -- as D&D often is -- though there’ll be some pseudo-dramatic emotional moments, too. Think of it as… fanfic junk food.
> 
> Thank you for putting up with me, and I hope you enjoy! Thanks so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

“Okay, could you repeat that one more time? But… more calmly.” 

“I’m perfectly calm! I’m just excited, that’s all!” 

“You know what helps me calm down? It’s pretty simple—I just tell myself, ‘I’m fine.’ That usually works. And if it doesn’t work, then I shout it: ‘I’m fine!’ Sometimes you need to hear aloud it in order for the fineness to actually work its magic… and the louder it is, the more fine you actually are—” 

“My name is Athena Cykes, and I’m _fine_!” 

The grasshopper had learned well, for every pair of eyes in the police department rose from their work to stare dumbly at the duo of Apollo Justice and Athena Cykes standing near the doorway. 

“Okay, calmer this time.” Athena took a deep breath. “I’m going to go visit the prosecutor’s office. A little birdie… well, a hawk told me that I may want to consult with him before the actual trial begins.” 

Apollo wondered if that was good practice, to be so chummy with your rival prosecutor in court. God knew _he_ didn’t have that great a relationship with all of the prosecutors he’d had the pleasure of going up against in the past. 

“Right. And what do you want _me_ to do, exactly?” 

“I want you,” Athena said, handing Apollo the manila envelope that had been tucked under her arm, “to head down to the Records Room and get some stuff relating to Crawlnober’s previous incidents. I was talking to a witness— Arilyn Moonsword, you remember the name—and it sounds like Crawlnober has been involved in some skeevy situations in the past.” She waggled her finger at him. “Just get the clerk to show you all of the evidence pertaining to the cases written down in that file!” 

Apollo frowned at her. “You know, I’ve been a lawyer for longer than you. I know how to use the Records Room.” Though he wasn’t sure if he had the authority, on this particular case… well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. 

Athena laughed, sheepishly. “Haha, I know. It’s just so fun giving orders! I feel like a full-fledged lawyer!” 

“You’ve _been_ a full-fledged lawyer for almost a year.”

“Right!” She struck a peace-sign pose, nearly smacking Apollo in the face in the process. “Divide and conquer! Let’s meet up in this lobby when we’re finished. Or, if you’re not done by the time I am… I’ll come looking for you, okay?” 

“Uh, sure,” said Apollo. Out of curiosity, he decided to slip open the envelope Athena had handed him. Inside was a list of cases scrawled in Athena’s messy handwriting, with bullet points relating to their importance: _DDE-1: First appearance of calling card. PF-2: Man, door?? Hand (fingerprint?)? Hook (in car, or out)? GUN?????_  

“What if I’m done before you, though? Where will you be? Prosecutor Blackquill’s… office?” He shuffled through more of the pages. Yeah, these weren’t official letters of request at all. What the hell was he supposed to do with these…? Hey, that wasn’t _him_ doodled in the corner, was it? His hair was _not_ that pointy! 

He didn’t receive a response. When he looked up, Athena was nowhere in sight. Apparently, she had already taken off without so much as a see-ya-later. 

…Well, that was that. 

“I guess I should get a move on,” Apollo murmured to himself. Now, where was the Records Room, again? H-he had totally been there before, of course! But the police department was a lot larger than one would think, and he swore that they moved stuff around every month or so. He supposed he could ask for help, but… all of the receptionists and straggling police officers didn’t really look like they wanted to be bothered. 

Well, he had an inkling of where the room was, so he might as well head… that way. 

Apollo, tucking the papers back into their envelope, headed off in a random, promising-looking direction.

He eventually came across a map posted on one of the walls, and… ah, there was the Records Room, but—was he headed the right way? The map didn’t have a “YOU ARE HERE” indicator of any kind, so…. 

He scrutinized the map for a handful of minutes. Okay, there was the entrance. Right. He had headed down a westward-facing corridor originally (he was pretty sure), but… wait, was the picture following the cardinal directions? Because, according to the map, the west hallways were forensic labs—but judging from the office spaces lined up and down the white-walled hallway, that wasn’t correct.  

Wait. This map was of the first floor, right? Of course it was—the “ENTRANCE” label was right there. But weren’t international affairs handled on the second floor…? But if _that_ was the case, why was there a room labeled for it on _this_ floor? 

“What a sour look. Your face is going to freeze that way, Herr Forehead.” 

“Ack—!” 

The voice from behind Apollo made his hair, from his horns to his pores, stand up on end. He whipped around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and gripped the manila envelope tightly, preparing himself to use it as a weapon—if necessary!

Glimmering in the fluorescent light in front of him was none other than Prosecutor Klavier Gavin, golden hair tossed loosely over one shoulder and jewelry sparkling. An amused smirk gummed his face, and his hands were nestled into the crook of his hips: pretentious and condescending, as per usual. 

“P-P-Prosecutor Gavin,” Apollo stuttered, inwardly cursing the way his voice faltered. “I, uh… I didn’t know you were there.” He could’ve announced his presence or something, rather than sneaking up on him like a freak.  

“Ach, I didn’t mean to frighten you! I assumed you heard me coming. You’re usually so observant, ja?” He leaned forward a bit, as if trying to shift himself to be more on Apollo’s level.  

Admittedly, Apollo was a little concerned that he _didn’t_ hear Prosecutor Gavin coming. With all of those kitschy chains and jewels and rings, Gavin’s gait usually resembled that of a mechanized battle-bot or escaped prison convict. He always clinked, clanged, and clacked whenever he so much as twitched. 

“I was preoccupied,” Apollo said quickly, ruffling his own gelled-up hair. 

Gavin glanced over Apollo (hey, not over— _around_! He wasn’t _that_ short!) at the map on the wall. A hum rumbled in the back of his throat.

“Lost, are we?” he asked. “Herr Forehead, you know that I’m always at your service. If you ever need help with something, I’d be more than happy to assist.” 

“…Thanks.” Like hell Apollo was going to contact Gavin out of the blue to ask for _directions_ , but he was sure the offer meant well. “But, uh, this is the police department. I wasn’t exactly expecting you to be here.” There was a question hidden somewhere in his words; one that he didn’t have the courage to just come out and ask. 

“I could say the same thing about you.” And, of course, Gavin skillfully avoided it. Of course he did. “What’s a handsome defense attorney like you doing in a place like this?” 

Well, two could play at the “avoiding” game.

Apollo huffed and turned away, back to the wall. “I’m here on a case.” 

“What kind of case?” Gavin prodded, falling in-line next to Apollo. God, the way he glimmered was so _irritating_ , even in Apollo’s peripheral vision. 

“It’s not really any of your business.” 

“On the contrary, I think it is.” Gavin’s laughter had a lyrical quality to it that Apollo scolded himself for picking up on. “Technically… certain parts of the police department are off-limits to members of the public, ja? We can’t just have random, brightly-colored characters taking their evening strolls through the building.” 

Apollo flinched. “W-wait, this isn’t a closed-off section, is it?” Somebody would’ve stopped him, right? 

“Nein, but I feel like I have an obligation to question any suspicious persons I see wandering through the halls. So, tell me, Herr Forehead….” Gavin took another step forward, so he was effectively standing in-between Apollo and the useless map. “…What are you looking for?” 

Something about that look made Apollo think that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a good idea to try to weasel his way out of that one. 

It wasn’t as if Apollo _disliked_ Prosecutor Gavin—not quite. It was true that Gavin could be a bit of a diva when it came to his music career, and his habit of flirting with everything with a pulse made Apollo want to vomit, but he was… nice. He was stellar in the courtroom, and his attitude towards the truth was something Apollo wished more prosecutors would adopt.  

He wouldn’t call Prosecutor Gavin a _friend_ , though. Mr. Wright was _friends_ with Prosecutor Edgeworth, judging by how comfortable they were around one another. Athena was… well, he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ Athena’s relationship with Prosecutor Blackquill entailed, but they spoke to one another often. The last time Apollo had talked with Gavin had been months ago, during one of Athena’s first cases at Themis Legal Academy. 

Gavin blinked at him, expectantly.  

Still, Apollo had to admit—Gavin’s smile was always warm, and his eyes always kind. Even during his lowest, pettiest moments (which Apollo was pretty damn sure he’d witnessed), he was always _nice_. Apollo had to wonder if that was a natural thing for him, or if years of dealing with obsessive fans and reporters had fine-tuned Gavin’s social skills to sharpened perfection. 

“There’s that look again,” Gavin observed. “Your finger is going to leave a permanent mark on that big forehead of yours. Fräulein Detective could probably dust it for prints.” 

Apollo curled his index finger, which had been absentmindedly poking his own forehead, towards his palm. “Ah.” He had gotten distracted, apparently. “Umm, well… I’m actually here for Athena—Cykes. You met her a couple of months ago.” 

“Ah, Fräulein Cykes? I remember her, yes. How could I forget a personality so… colorful?” Gavin tilted his head and his eyes flickered, working his way down from Apollo’s conspicuous forehead to his shoes. He seemed to be inspecting him, though Apollo wasn’t sure as to why. “So that’s the mystery, then? Your girlfriend has you running errands for her?” 

“It’s not like that at all.” Apollo was quick on the defense. Him and _Athena_? The thought was ludicrous—and it kind of grossed him out, to boot. “I already told you, we’re not… absolutely _not_.”  

Apollo caught a small twitch in Gavin’s face: the right corner of his lips pulled upwards slightly, turning his grin lopsided. Apollo couldn’t tell if that was from relief or annoyance.

“I was going to remark that she’s a bit too young for you.” His words didn’t really reveal much, either. 

Apollo could press the matter further, he supposed, but the strange look faded as easily as it had appeared, and Gavin was back to grinning in an instant. 

“…Anyway,” Apollo said, treading carefully, “Athena asked me to get some old evidence from a couple of past cases involving her current client.” His stance wilted. “But, uh, I can’t… find the Records Room.” 

“Records Room? Why didn’t you say so to begin with? I can take you there.” Gavin ran his fingers through his blonde bangs. His ringlets wrapped and ghosted around his silver bands, but… now that Apollo thought about it, he had never once seen them get tangled. Maybe Gavin invested in some kind of magical conditioner…. 

…Wait. 

“You can?” Apollo asked, blinking. 

“What kind of prosecutor would I be if I didn’t know where the Records Room was? It’s common knowledge, after all.” 

Apollo sensed an insult in there, somewhere. 

“And what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help you out?”  

_Friend_. Hearing the word come from Gavin’s mouth wasn’t as dramatic as Apollo had imagined, but it still made him frown. Did Gavin actually think of him as a friend? Obviously not, or he would’ve tried to contact him more frequently, right? Then again, Apollo hadn’t made any moves to try to get closer to _him_ , either…. 

…Wait, weren’t they rivals in court?! There was no obligation to be buddy-buddy! Mr. Wright was just… weird, and Athena had extenuating circumstances! _He_ was the normal one, here! 

“Okay,” Apollo muttered, narrowing his eyes. Gavin must’ve picked up on his irritation, for he straightened from his comfortable position into one more formal (well, as formal as one could be dressed in deep purple and leather pants). “Thanks.” 

Gavin beamed a smile hot enough to fry the sun. “Any time. Here—we’re in the complete opposite wing. Follow me, Herr Forehead.” 

 

* * *

 

Navigating through the police department was a completely different experience with a prosecutor by Apollo’s side. The clerks and officers who had simply ignored or glared at him before now nodded at the duo in polite courtesy. Pretty much everybody they came within fifteen feet of stopped dead in their tracks to wish Prosecutor Gavin a good evening, which he always responded to in kind. The amount of respect in the air was palpable—Apollo was worried he was going to choke on it. Did all prosecutors receive this kind of royal treatment, he wondered, or was it just because Prosecutor Gavin was… well, Prosecutor Gavin? For some reason, he had trouble imagining the entire world stopping for the Paynes. 

They reached their destination quickly enough. Apollo mentally jotted down the turns Gavin had taken, for future reference. He wouldn’t hear the end of it if Gavin (or anybody who _knew_ Gavin, for that matter) caught him in such a compromising position a second time. 

“Here we are.” Prosecutor Gavin gestured towards the closed door of the Records Room with a flourish, as if presenting some great work of art. “You’re aware that you need special permission in order to access the evidence, ja?” 

“O-of course I do!” Apollo waved the manila envelope in front of Gavin’s face. “I was supposed to show the receptionist this file, and she’d—he’d—they’d let me in.” 

“What receptionist?”  

“Ah.” Indeed, there didn’t appear to be anybody _guarding_ the Records Room, receptionist or no. Apparently, the police didn’t think anybody would be stupid enough to stroll right into the police department and commit a felony.  

The corners of Gavin’s eyes crinkled, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He looked like he was trying to suppress a laugh. “Herr Forehead… you _have_ used the Records Room before, haven’t you?” 

Apollo winced. “Y-yes, I have!” he said, clenching his hands into determined fists, and—whoops, he accidentally crumpled Athena’s envelope, too. “What kind of lawyer would I be if I hadn’t?! I’m not a greenhorn anymore!” 

The laughter bubbling behind Gavin’s lips brimmed over, spilling out into the air and echoing off of the walls. Apollo felt himself flush.

“No need to get so defensive about it. I understand.” He reached out to pat Apollo (condescendingly) on the shoulder. Oh _god_ , he had such heavy hands—the sudden _smack_ made Apollo jump and emit a less-than-masculine squeak of surprise. Jesus, there was no need to get so handsy—Apollo disliked that about Gavin, too…. 

Gavin noticed Apollo’s discomfort fairly quickly, and he brought that same hand back up to wrap curls around his fingers. Like he had _meant_ for that to happen—though Apollo doubted that was the entire truth, as Gavin’s eyes suddenly wanted to look everywhere but at Apollo’s face. He wasn’t used to rejection, apparently. 

“…Consider your permission granted,” he said after only a few beats of hesitation. His gaze flickered back to Apollo, but it was sidelong and half-hearted. (…What, had he hurt his feelings _that_ badly?) “It must’ve been fate, us running into one another. Or else you would’ve been a perpetrator of trespassing, ja?” 

Apollo rubbed the spot where Gavin had patted him with a tight-lipped scowl. He wondered if it was going to bruise…? It better not bruise. God, was Gavin that strong, or was he just that _fragile_?  

“…Must’ve been. Thanks for the help, Prosecutor Gavin.” 

“Like I said, any time.” He shrugged. “Who knows how long you would have been wandering around if I hadn’t come to your rescue? Ach—I wonder how long you were lost to begin with…?” What had started as a joke turned into concern halfway through the sentence, with Gavin’s fingers clutching a bit too tightly around his own locks. 

“How long…?” Huh, good question. Apollo hadn’t checked the time in a while. Hopefully he wasn’t keeping Athena waiting— 

“ _Apollo_ _Justice_! What the _heck_ took you so _long_?!” 

Well, that answered _that_ question. 

Before he could even turn all the way around, a spiteful, maddened yellow blur blitzed down the hallway and grabbed him by the tie, hoisting him up to his toes. Oh god, he had forgotten how _strong_ Athena actually was. In retrospect, it seemed like a stupid thing to go around forgetting. 

“A-Athena, you’re—choking—” 

“I’ve been standing here waiting for you for, like, twenty minutes! I only snuck off just now because I had to _pee_! You didn’t answer any of my calls or anything—what the heck is your problem?” Athena’s lips were pulled back in a snarl, and her eyes were glowing with fierce intensity. She looked, for lack of a better adjective, pissed off.  

Apollo coughed and gently tried to nudge her away from him. The tie was riding up on his throat, tightening at much too dangerous an angle.

“S-sorry, I got lost! There’s no need to get so—worked up!” It didn’t feel like it had been that long. Maybe the meeting with Prosecutor Blackquill had gone smoothly?  

Reluctantly, Athena released her grip on Apollo’s tie. “You can’t just—you don’t—answer your— _ugh_!” Her words were hot, and they were almost impossible to distinguish from one another. “You had me really worried, you know?!” 

“ _How dare you!_ ” said Widget, blinking a fiery-hot red. 

Apollo pulled at his clothes and at his tie, trying to get himself back to normal. Usually, he wouldn’t mind if he looked a little scruffy, but… Prosecutor Gavin was still standing right there (looking fairly amused, if Apollo had to say).

“It’s a police station, Athena. What could’ve _possibly_ happened to me?”  

“ _Anything_!” Athena said, and the way her voice cracked instantly made Apollo regret his choice of words.  

It was his first instinct to respond to anything anyone said with snark, whether it was concern or not. Athena was just worried about him, that was all. He shouldn’t have been so callous. 

He probably should’ve apologized, but Athena probably should’ve apologized, too. Instead, they both just stared at one another, waiting for the other to make the first move. If Mr. Wright had been there, he would’ve lectured them on how their hotheadedness was going to someday lead to their doom. 

…Apollo didn’t want to roll over first, though. Not to Athena! If it were Trucy in her place, maybe, but _Athena_? Athena was the newbie! He wasn’t going to admit that she was in the right—not that she even was! 

Neither of them had the guts to break the silence. Instead, it was Prosecutor Gavin who cleared his throat, causing both Apollo and Athena to turn on him a bit too violently. 

“…It’s been a while since I last saw your beautiful face, Fräulein Cykes,” Gavin greeted with a friendly grin. 

Athena stared at him for a couple of long, hard moments. Apollo could see the dots connecting in her head as she searched her memory for where, exactly, she had seen this gaudy guy before. 

“…Prosecutor Gavin!” she finally decided, and all of the hostility that had been so evident on her face before wisped into nothingness. “It’s nice to see you again! What’re you doing here?” 

“I work here,” he answered, and Athena grimaced in embarrassment. “I’m a prosecutor, ja? We usually wander around these parts. Like dust in the wind.” 

“He helped me find the Records Room,” Apollo clarified. “Like I said, I got lost.” 

“You were lost for _forty-five minutes_ , Apollo?” 

Whoa, had it really been that long? Time must’ve gotten away from him…. 

“Forty-five minutes?!” Gavin wrenched back, as if he had just been struck. “Ach, I should’ve found you sooner! Why didn’t you ask for help?”  

Apollo frowned. “Well, part of that time consisted of you and me talking, too.” 

“So it’s your fault, Gavin!” Athena pointed an accusatory finger at the prosecutor, and he held his hands up in good-natured surrender. “Shame on you! You have no right to distract Apollo while he’s working on a case!” 

“Distract? Nein, Fräulein—I only helped Herr Forehead here find his way. That’s all.” 

“Liar! I can hear the noise in your voice—there’s no point in lying to me!” 

“…Noise?” 

“Athena,” Apollo interjected. In the nick of time, too—he reached out and grabbed Athena’s wrist just before she could reach for Widget. He didn’t want to scar Prosecutor Gavin with the Mood Matrix bit—not yet, anyway. He’d save that trump card for a rainy day. “Do you still need to use the Records Room?” 

She looked a bit bummed at having her mojo broken, but it didn’t faze her for too long. She shook Apollo’s hand off of her before flashing him and Prosecutor Gavin a peace sign. “Nope! I copied all of the information while you two were goofing off!” 

“Ah,” Gavin said, “a trespasser. Perhaps I should report this to someone.” At Athena’s slack-jawed, limp-shouldered look, he added with a laugh: “I kid, I kid. Just this once, I’ll let you both off with a warning. Remember to get permission next time, ja? I’m sure one of the detectives could arrange something for you.” 

“We will,” Apollo said, cutting Athena off before she could say anything smart. “Thank you for all of the help, Prosecutor Gavin.” 

“Any time.” 

Despite that exchange, Gavin didn’t look like he was planning on going anywhere anytime soon. He remained firm in his spot, even leaning back against the wall to get more comfortable.

Apollo guessed that it must have been a boring day. 

“…Well,” Apollo began slowly, “I guess we should be heading off, now—” 

“Hey, that reminds me.” Athena hummed and rubbed her chin. “Did you happen to ask Prosecutor Gavin about the thing?” 

…The thing. 

“The thing?” Gavin asked, curious. “What thing, Herr Forehead?” 

Apollo didn't know, either. He wrinkled his eyebrows. “What thing are we talking about?” 

“You know, the Thing!” Athena made a nebulous motion with her arms: a… donut? A flightless bird? A dying whale? 

“Uh.” 

She lowered her tone to that of a murmur, so only Apollo could hear her—even with Gavin obviously straining to listen in.

“Mr. Wright told us to invite some friends to play that game, remember?” 

“ _Hah_!” Apollo laughed—a single chuckle, short and spiteful. “Hell _no_.” 

“What? Why not? He’s perfect!” 

“Are you serious, Athena?” Klavier Gavin, German rockstar prosecutor extraordinaire—playing _Dungeons and Dragons_?  

He envisioned Gavin dressed up in Renaissance Faire attire, with fake elf ears and a harp under his arm. “Achtung, baby! They’re taking the Hobbits to Isengard!” And then the dream-Gavin strummed a few notes of the “Fellowship” theme on his harp with a stupid, pretty smile plastered on his stupid, pretty face. 

“...Absolutely not,” Apollo reiterated. 

From her clenched fists and crooked brow, he got the impression that Athena didn’t like that answer. “C’mon, Apollo! You don’t know until you ask!” 

“You both know I can hear everything you’re saying, don’t you?” 

“You know what? I’ll humor you. I’ll ask.” Apollo faced Gavin with such suddenness, the prosecutor seemed taken aback. “Prosecutor Gavin, are you busy on Friday night?” 

Of course Gavin was busy on Friday night. His band might’ve broken up, but he was still a contracted musician and a talented prosecutor. If he wasn’t doing something music-related, then he would be preparing for a case (like Athena and Apollo _should’ve been_ ). If not that, well… Gavin seemed like a socially-adept person. He might’ve had a girlfriend he was fond of spending time with on Friday nights. 

…W-well, whatever the reason, Apollo was one-hundred percent sure Gavin was busy. He had to be. Who _wasn’t_ busy on a Friday night? 

Gavin’s answer took longer to arrive than expected. He inspected Apollo closely for a few moments, his eyes searching his face, then drifting over to his golden bangle. His expression deepened in a manner which Apollo could only place as “pensive,” before he seemed to find his answer somewhere above Apollo’s head. 

“For you, Herr Forehead,” he said with renewed confidence, “I’m always free.” 

…What kind of answer was _that_? 

“Excuse me?” Apollo said, feeling a cold sweat brimming on the back of his neck. 

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen one another. I think a bit of catching up is past due, ja?” Gavin’s smile returned to his face. “Friday night sounds wonderful.” 

…Something, somewhere, must’ve been lost in translation. Because—what the hell, why would Gavin say _yes_?  

“Y-you really don’t have anything going on? Seriously?” 

“If I have any prior engagements, I can move them.” 

Again, _what_ kind of _answer_ was _that_?  

“ _Awesome_!” Athena’s hoot startled both Gavin and Apollo, Apollo hopping up on his toes and Gavin broadening into a more defensive position. “Aw man, Trucy’s going to be pumped!” 

That seemed to catch Gavin’s attention. “Fräulein Magician?” He reached up to brush his bangs away from his face, and— 

Ah. 

Apollo felt his bracelet tighten around his wrist. It was only for a fleeting instant, but… no, he was pretty damn sure he felt something from Gavin. That was odd—he hadn’t said anything that sounded like a lie. At least, not in that previous statement. Was something wrong with Trucy…? 

He was about to open his mouth to say something, but Athena beat him to the punch (as per usual).

“Yeah! She’ll be so happy to hear you can make it! Mr. Wright, too!” 

“H-Herr Wright?” 

This time, the tightening in his bracelet felt like it could snap his wrist clean off. Apollo blew a hiss of air between his teeth; something was _definitely_ up. 

“Yeah, I think the plan is to start at around… five P.M.? As soon as Trucy gets done with her homework, basically.” For somebody so eager to search for emotional discord before, Athena didn’t seem to pick up on Gavin’s strange behavior at all—maybe she was too busy with her own thoughts. “Mr. Wright’s gonna walk us through how to play, so you don’t need to bring anything. He says he has spare dice, too!” 

Gavin stared at her blankly. 

“What did I sign up for, exactly…?” he asked. 

“ _Dungeons and Dragons_ ,” said Apollo. “With Athena, Trucy, Mr. Wright, me, and some other random people.” He rubbed at the skin beneath his bracelet, readying for Gavin to slip up again. “Not what you had in mind?” 

Gavin was silent for a little while, preoccupied with the texture of his hair. Apollo waited for his bracelet to tighten, but… it never did. Instead, Gavin released a long puff of air and a small, accompanying chuckle. 

“How very _you_ ,” he said in between huffing laughs. “I suppose I should’ve asked what I was getting myself into. Nevertheless—I said I will be there, so be there I will.”  

Huh, the tell was gone. Had Gavin lightened up, or had Apollo lost the lie? 

…Wait, no. Wasn’t Apollo trying to stop this from happening? 

“You don’t have to come if you don’t—” 

“Sweet!” Athena shot Gavin two waggling thumbs-ups. “Five P.M. sharp at the Wright Anything Agency! Be there or be square!” 

“Ach, you know how I hate being square.” 

Apollo spoke up once more. “Prosecutor Gavin, it really isn’t a big deal if you don’t want to come. I completely understand. In fact, I’d prefer it if—” 

“Nein, nein,” Gavin said coolly. “We made a date out of it, so I’ll come. Ah, tell me, Fräulein Cykes—should I prepare myself in any way, or…?” 

Athena shrugged. “Mr. Wright’s the only one who knows how to play! So, we’re all on equal ground in terms of not knowing what to expect. I’m sure it’ll be a fun adventure, though!” 

Adventure. Oh, god—Prosecutor Gavin had actually agreed to _roleplay_ with them. Was Apollo dreaming? Was he in Hell? This had to be some kind of mistake…. 

“Well,” Athena said, sending a knowingly mischievous look in Apollo’s direction, “I think we should be going, before Apollo here starts having a meltdown. Or worse, before you change your mind!” 

Gavin placed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “I would never stand such a beautiful woman up, Fräulein.” He glanced over at Apollo. “…Or a man as breathtaking as our Herr Forehead.” 

Apollo gagged. 

“Aww, look at that! Apollo’s gone as red as a cherry tomato!” 

“ _He’s so cute!_ ” 

“Ah, your little friend is right, Fräulein. His complexion matches the color of his suit.” 

“W-what are you talking about?!” Apollo covered his face with the palm of his hand. He wasn’t _blushing_! He was just annoyed, that was all! Angry! Irritated! “I-I’m _fine_! Let’s just—let’s go, Athena!” 

Athena giggled. “All right, all right.” She gently placed her hands on Apollo’s shoulders and gave him a light push, as if trying to steer him. “We’ll see you on Friday, Prosecutor Gavin!” 

“Ja, baby.” Gavin winked at the both of them. “See you then. Try not to lose yourself on the way to the exit, Herr Forehead.” 

“I-I won’t, thank you very much!” 

Gavin’s laughter followed Apollo and Athena down the hallway. Even when they left the building and entered the chilly spring night, Apollo could still hear it rebounding and reverberating in his mind.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would upload some actual Klavier, too -- so you wouldn't think I'm entirely full of hot air. (Only mostly. I still can't believe I'm actually writing a longfic, my god.)
> 
> I haven't played DD in 9835093485 years, so if Klavier and Athena's interactions seems off... that would be why.
> 
> This continues to be unbeta'd, so I apologize for anything wonky. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The Wright Anything Agency was, perhaps, the absolute worst place to hold a gathering of any more than, say, three people. Even when all four of the Agency members were present, it was a bit of a squeeze. On top of that, despite Apollo tidying up a few days prior, the office was back to the status quo—that being the ground zero of a magical prop bomb. 

“We don’t have a table to play on, do we?” Mr. Wright observed sometime around four o’clock. “Hmm. I guess we’ll have to move the couch, and we can play on the floor. Well, _you_ guys can play on the floor: my back can’t handle that. Let’s move one of the desks over, too.” 

The use of the words “we” and “let’s” implied that Mr. Wright would be helping. But, alas, it was Apollo who found himself pushing the couch into the corner of the room and pulling a single-person desk out into the new space. Sweat began to dew on his brow and the base of his neck. 

“Wow, Polly—you’re so strong!” Trucy marveled from her spot on the floor on the opposite side of the room. She had her homework spread out in front of her—calculus, Apollo had learned the hard way. Trucy had asked him for help one time, and he had to pathetically admit to her that he had lost all knowledge of mathematics the instant he graduated high school. 

He would’ve berated her for not helping, but her homework gave her an excuse. Mr. Wright, on the other hand…. 

“You’re going to make an old man do hard labor?” Mr. Wright was seated in a chair near the entrance of the room, by Charley. He was shuffling through the contents of a folder, eyes darting to and fro as he scanned the pages.   

“You’re not that old, Mr. Wright.” 

“Thank you, Apollo—but flattery won’t get you anywhere.” 

Apollo slandered him incoherently under his breath. 

Athena arrived at around 4:30, with sass in her step and vigor in her voice. Apollo craned to look at her from his position sprawled over the now-askew couch. 

“Athena Cykes here, totally psyched to party!” She greeted the group with a wave of her hand. “Wow, you moved the couch! I didn’t even know the office _was_ this big!” 

“You usually can’t tell with all of the crap lying around,” Apollo said. 

“Hey, Athena!” Trucy offered her a little tip of her magician’s hat. “You got here just in time—I just got done with all of my homework!” 

Mr. Wright glanced up from his folder. “Really, now? You weren’t working on it for that long.” 

“It wasn’t that hard, Daddy!” Trucy collected her scattered papers and began arranging them into some sort of lopsided, teetering pile. The sight of it made Apollo’s eye twitch. “Soon as I get cleaned up, we can start playing!” 

Athena tilted her head. “Huh? Wasn’t the plan to start at five? That’s what I told the person I invited, anyway.” 

“Oh, so you did invite somebody?” Mr. Wright asked. “Who?” 

“Yeah, who?! I tried asking a bunch of people, but… they were all busy!” 

Trucy’s high school friends must have had better things to do on a Friday night than play _Dungeons and Dragons_ with a bunch of lawyers, Apollo assumed. 

Athena chuckled, and she tapped a finger to her lips. “It’s a surprise! Besides, she’ll be here soon, anyway.” 

“She? Oh, good.” Mr. Wright crinkled the corner of one of the pages in his folder. The corner already looked pretty worn to begin with—it must’ve been important. Mr. Wright only worried the corners of important documents. “For a second, I was afraid you may have invited Prosecutor Blackquill.” 

Athena flinched, and the color in her cheeks faded to pale. “H-huh? Don’t—don’t be ridiculous! I mean, I like Prosecutor Blackquill and all, but… could you imagine? Him, playing _Dungeons and Dragons_?” She shook her head too quickly, and her bangs whipped her across the eyes in a painful-seeming way. “No way! B-besides, we’re rivals in court! It would be unprofessional to ask him something like that, haha….” 

Apollo narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re kidding me, right?” 

“Did you invite somebody too, Apollo?” Mr. Wright asked, perhaps sensing the discord in Apollo’s voice for himself.  

“No. But Athena invited Prosecutor Gavin, too.”                     

“Nuh-uh, _you_ invited him,” Athena said. “I just gave you a push in the right direction!” 

Mr. Wright ceased his ruffling and looked up to give Apollo a… rather _odd_ look, actually. Was that annoyance? Amusement? His eyes had gone dark, and his lips pursed into a shape Apollo couldn’t identify.  

“Prosecutor Gavin?” he said. “…Really.” 

“Prosecutor Gavin?” Trucy said. “Really?!”

Despite parroting her father’s exact words, Trucy’s expression couldn’t be any more opposite: her smile was bright, and her eyes gleaming. She leapt to her feet and clasped her hands together.

“This is so great! I love Prosecutor Gavin! I can’t believe he actually agreed to play with us, Polly!” 

“I can’t believe it, either,” Apollo said.

“Well, believe it, because it’s almost five!” Athena pointed to the clock mounted on the far wall of the room. “I told both him and Ema to be here right on the hour, so they should get here any—” 

“Wait, what? _Ema_?” Apollo wrenched himself upwards from his lounging position into one of straight attention. He turned towards Athena, mouth agape. “As in, Ema Skye?” 

“Oh, Ema.” Mr. Wright’s strange expression faded into… well, if Apollo had to give it a name, he’d say _relief_. “I haven’t seen her in a long time. This should be fun.” 

Athena nodded, seeming awfully pleased with herself. “Yeah! I think I said this before, but she’s the detective on the current case I’m working on. I keep seeing her around, so I thought I might as well invite her! I wasn’t expecting her to actually say yes, but… it’s cool that she did.” A sudden frown swept over her face. “I tried inviting Junie and some others, but they couldn’t make it… so it all works out, right?” 

Apollo felt his hair sag. Ema had agreed to show up? _Why_? He didn’t think she was especially fond of either Apollo or Trucy—was it because of Mr. Wright? And, beyond that…. 

“…You’re telling me that the only two people we invited…” Apollo said, eyebrow cocking, “…as in, the only two people coming who aren’t in the Agency, are Klavier Gavin and Ema Skye?” 

“Yeah!” Athena grinned. “Is there a problem with that?” 

Kind of. Apollo had had the pleasure of working with the duo on numerous occasions in the past, and… well, there were thousands of reasons why this was a horrible, awful, terrible idea. Starting with— 

_Ka-tonk!_

Yeah, sure—why not start with that? 

The “ _ka-tonk_ ” from the hallway could be heard even through the closed door. The walls were paper-thin, so it was always pretty easy to hear whatever chaos was happening outside. 

“…What the heck was that?” Athena asked, blinking.

“Ah, Fräulein Detective,” a muffled voice said from beyond the doorway. “What kind of way is that to greet an old friend?” 

Apollo found Trucy’s gaze from across the room. She seemed to have come to the same conclusion that he had, for her hand was clamped over her open mouth. 

“Grrk!” Another voice sounded from the hall, this one in a decidedly higher pitch. “What are _you_ doing here, fop?! What is this? Was I… tricked?” 

 _MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH._  

“Oh, Snackoos,” Mr. Wright said. He was the only one out of the Wright Anything Agency who wasn’t wearing a stupefied look on his or her face. “I hope she brought enough to share.”

“Fräulein Detective, please—” 

“Stop calling me that! I’m a real forensic investigator now, you know! Show me some respect!” 

 _Ka-tonk!_  

“Oof—there’s no need to aim for the _face_!” 

Seeing as how nobody was making a move for the door, Apollo voted to get to his feet. He stretched his arms over his head and cracked his back. 

“Prosecutor Gavin and Ema get along about as well as a fox and a bunny would,” Apollo said to Athena. “This probably wasn’t your best idea.” 

She drew back, looking shocked. Widget, around her neck, turned a sickly yellow color.  

When Apollo opened the door to the office, he was met with the sight of Ema Skye, lab coat and all, rearing back as if about to pitch a baseball. Next to her was Prosecutor Gavin, ducking his head in his hands to avoid the incoming blow. He wasn’t dressed in his usual attire, Apollo noted; instead, he was wearing a more comfortable outfit of a soft-looking lavender blazer and khaki slacks. Fascinating: Apollo wasn’t aware that Gavin owned any pants that weren’t made out of cow ass. 

Ema stopped her pitch mid-throw when she noticed Apollo in the doorway. Her green eyes drew into hard slits, and her pink lips puckered into a puffy pout.

“Where’s the yellow one?” were the first words out of her mouth. 

“…Nice to see you too, Ema.” 

“What kind of practical joke is this?! I’m invited to play a game with the Wrights, and— _he’s_ here?” She gestured to Prosecutor Gavin, who was slowly uncurling from his defensive position, as though he were a reeking trash bin. “Where is she? The yellow one!” 

Apollo looked over his shoulder, back into the Wright Anything Agency. Athena, at some point, had ran to crouch behind the crooked couch. Hiding, apparently. 

“Good evening, Prosecutor Gavin,” Apollo said as he returned his attention back to the two guests. “I’m kind of surprised you came, to be honest.” 

Gavin took a hard, long look at Ema standing next to him, as if to gauge whether or not she was still preparing to strike. She scoffed at him in response. 

“…Ja, Herr Forehead. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Gavin finally let his hands drop from his face. “May we come in? I feel very vulnerable out here.” 

Apollo stepped out of the way. Ema entered first, storming and stomping and munching all the while, while Gavin trailed along behind her. The room suddenly got a lot warmer with the addition of the two extra bodies. 

“Ema! Prosecutor Gavin!” Trucy bounded across the room to greet them. She wrapped Gavin up in a giant, warm hug that wiped all Ema-driven anxiety clean from his face, while she offered Ema a robust handshake that even she couldn’t help but crack a smile at. “It’s been so long! I’m so glad you guys decided to come!” 

“Of course! You’re the only reason I agreed!” Ema said. “You and Mr. Wright, that is!” 

Boy, did Apollo feel loved. 

Gavin smiled ever-so-dazzlingly, and Trucy squealed. (Apollo and Ema, on the other hand, both gagged.) “Ja, baby—I’m ready to rock.” 

“So, this is our party?” 

There was that trademark authoritative voice; even Gavin and Ema froze in place. Mr. Wright could certainly control a room when he wanted to. 

“It’s nice to see you again, Ema,” he said, getting to his feet. “If I had known you were coming, maybe I would’ve tried to tidy up the place.” 

Bullshit, Apollo thought. 

“It’s no problem at all! I’m just happy to be able to see you again! We always seem to meet under… nefarious circumstances, so I figured that game night would be a nice change of pace.” Ema reached up to adjust the rose-tinted glasses high on her head. “Hopefully nobody gets murdered! But if it has to be someone, then I vote for the fop.” 

“Ach,” Gavin moaned, “your words cut deep.” 

“We can catch up as we’re playing,” Mr. Wright said. He opened up the folder in his hands and slipped out a handful of papers. Each sheet was covered, top-to-bottom, in black, printed text. There were a _lot_ of sheets, too—Apollo was surprised that Mr. Wright had forked over that much cash for ink. “We need to start working on making characters. That process, by itself, is going to take up a hearty chunk of time.” 

Mr. Wright handed Apollo three sheets of paper, before moving on to Ema, then Gavin.

“Athena,” he called, “you want to play, don’t you?” 

“Eep!” 

“What’s the lovely lawyer doing hiding behind the couch?” Gavin asked with a smile. 

Ema huffed. “Relax—I’m not gonna hurt you. Not in front of Mr. Wright, anyway.” 

As Athena dragged herself up off of the floor, Apollo began scanning through the sheets Mr. Wright had given him. One was labeled, “Character Information,” and featured a bunch of words and labels Apollo didn’t really understand. Strength, Dexterity, Charisma… he had played enough video games to know that those were probably stats, but still. Was he expected to build a character from the ground up? How much of this game was a _game_ , and how much of it was, uh, sitting on the floor and dicking around? 

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mr. Wright said as he cracked his knuckles. “I’ve employed Trucy’s help with this: she’s already made her character, so she’s experienced. I’ll help Ema and Athena—Trucy, could you help Apollo and Prosecutor Gavin draft their characters, please?” 

…So authoritative. Mr. Wright was taking this all very seriously, wasn’t he?  

Trucy pumped a fist into the air. “Of course, Daddy!” She grabbed Apollo’s wrist (whoa, when had she gotten by his side?!) with one arm, dragged him across the floor, and snagged Gavin with her other. “Over here, you two! We have a lot to cover!”

 

* * *

 

While Mr. Wright, Ema, and Athena fretted over their character sheets on the couch, Apollo, Trucy, and Prosecutor Gavin were relegated to sitting on the floor—probably where they’d end up playing later that night. 

Well, _hopefully_ later that night. This character creation thing was taking _forever_. Good thing Apollo had snacked on something before coming, or he would have been very grumpy right about now…. 

“So, there are twelve main classes,” Trucy had explained to an annoyed Apollo and a gaping Gavin. “There’s barbarian, bard, cleric, druid, fighter, monk, paladin, ranger, rogue, sorcerer, warlock, and wizard.” 

“Yeah, okay—I caught about two of those,” Apollo muttered. 

“Ja, that’s a… lot to remember, Fräulein.” 

“First, you gotta envision your character!” Trucy tipped her hat and beamed an almost evil grin. “Are they heroic? Are they _dastardly_? Do they fight for good, for evil? Do they follow the law, or do they make their own rules? Once you have a personality in mind, then you need to think about what magical race they are! A stalwart dwarf? An elegant elf?!” 

She was getting way too excited about this. 

“I usually tank,” Apollo said, thinking back to the video games he had played in the past. Clay, mostly, used to force him to play the newest MMO’s. (When Trucy had learned he was well-versed in that genre of game, she had practically exploded.) “This is an RPG, isn’t it?” 

“It is!” Trucy said. “Hmm, it’s a little different, though. Like… there’s no aggro mechanic in _Dungeons and Dragons_ , so ‘tanking’ mostly consists of being able to take a lot of hits and deal a lot of damage without having to run away screaming after getting hit once.” 

Apollo bobbed his head. “I assume those spellcasting classes you mentioned—wizard, sorcerer—are on the squishier side, then?” 

“Yeah! They’re good for DPS, but you definitely don’t want an entire party of them! Somebody’s gotta be able to survive a crit.” 

Prosecutor Gavin coughed from beside Apollo, presumably trying to subtly draw attention to himself. His “subtlety” failed spectacularly. 

“Herr Forehead, Fräulein Magician,” he said with a very grumpy look. “You’re saying all these words, but I don’t know what they mean.” 

Apollo and Trucy both gave him vacant stares. 

“…Oh!” Trucy smacked a hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry! I guess you’re not really the gaming type, are you?” 

“Nein, I can’t say that I am. I usually don’t have the time for such a… carefree hobby.” 

Apollo felt the urge to smack him. 

“No sweat! You don’t need to worry about all of that stuff, anyway. Fifth Edition is really simple!” Trucy beamed at him. “Okay, Prosecutor Gavin… do you want to hit things, or do you want to cast magic?” 

Gavin returned the grin. “What kind of question is that? Of course I’d choose magic.” 

“Heehee, good man!”  

Trucy explained the nuances of the game to them—how the stats should be split according to class, how different races gave bonuses to different stats. Since Mr. Wright was using the handbook, Apollo had to scroll through a virtual copy of it on his phone. That was fine—it wasn’t like he paid for data or anything….

Eventually, he and Gavin chose their desired races, classes, and backgrounds. Gavin had decided on a class pretty quickly (“I can’t tell you what it is yet, Herr Forehead! You need to meet him for yourself, ja?”). It took a little while longer for Apollo to choose, but… he was happy with his decision. 

Trucy gave Apollo’s sheet a once-over and frowned at him.

“A human, Polly?” she whispered. “You’re so boring!” 

“Hey, did you even look at their stats? They’re ridiculously over-powered.” Apollo showed her on his character sheet. “Look—I got to choose this thing called a ‘feat,’ which nobody else will get until they reach level four. Pretty neat, huh?” 

“Neat, but boring! I thought you were going to choose a race like a half-orc or gnome or something!” 

“Why would I ever do that…?” 

“I dunno, but I wanted you to! It’s more fun that way!” She scrutinized his sheet again. “Paladin, huh? I guess that’s fine. All about truth and justice… that’s just like you, Polly!” 

Apollo smiled, despite himself. He liked the idea of a paladin: they were all about the pursuit of greater truth, which was something he could get behind. They had pretty cool powers, too. He wasn’t sure about the whole “channeling divinity” thing, but he’d make do. After all, he was named after a divine god of justice! 

“Daddy!” Trucy called to her father. “We’re all done over here! Ready whenever you are!” 

Mr. Wright, as well as Ema and Athena, swiveled their heads towards Trucy.  

“Great timing! We just finished over here, too,” Mr. Wright said. 

“We would’ve been finished ages ago if Cykes here would’ve just decided on her damn spells,” Ema muttered. 

Athena shot her a nasty look. “Hey, it’s hard, okay? There’s a lot of choices! Like you would know!” 

“Excuse you, at least I can do more than one thing per day—” 

“All right,” Mr. Wright butted in, standing up. “Let’s see if we can get anything done today. Here’s how it’s going to work: you guys will form a circle on the floor, and I’ll sit at….” He ambled over to the desk Apollo had dragged out into the center of the room and rapped his knuckles on it. “…This desk. Don’t form the circle around me—make me part of the circle, okay?” 

His tone was deathly serious. Again, he was taking this whole thing _way_ too seriously. 

Apollo arranged himself as Mr. Wright had instructed, as did the rest of the group. Athena and Ema joined them on the floor, with Ema looking especially peeved at having to sit criss-cross-applesauce. They formed a lumpy oval with Mr. Wright’s desk at its apex; Apollo had Trucy on his right, Gavin to his left. 

Mr. Wright took a seat at the desk, before bringing out a… screen? It was a long piece of cardboard, folded to form a protective barrier around whatever documents Mr. Wright had spread out on the desk. The screen had an image of a giant red dragon on it, with a party of fearsome, colorful characters leaping to battle it. 

“Oh, this?” Mr. Wright took a peek over the top. “It’s a Dungeon Master’s screen. I need to use it so none of you try sneaking a peek at what I have planned.” 

“It’s not like we could even if we wanted to,” Apollo said. “You’re at a desk, and we’re on the floor.” The screen just made it impossible to see Mr. Wright’s face. 

“You can never be too careful, Apollo.” 

Sure. He just wanted an excuse to bust out his old, geeky stuff. 

“Here you go,” Mr. Wright said. He shuffled behind his screen, and then tossed what he had been looking for down to the plebeians below: a palm-sized, black tethered bag. “That’s all the dice you could ever need. I’d prefer it if you could all get your own dice at some point, but… expecting that of you now would be silly.”

“I’d say,” Apollo grumbled. 

“The most important die is the D20, but what else you’ll need varies depending on the attack you’re making. Ah, none of that is all that important right now, though—we’ll get to it in time.” 

As Trucy dumped the contents of the bag into the center of the circle (“Whoa! There’s so many! I call these blue ones—!”), Apollo noticed something. For what was supposed to be an RPG, there wasn’t… well, there wasn’t anything _there_. In front of him. There was no map, no grid, no board.  

“Uh,” Apollo said. “There isn’t any kind of… board, for this board game?” 

“Nope.” Mr. Wright sent him another amused glance from over his screen. “This is _theatre of the mind_. We can play with a grid eventually, when things start getting technical, but… a party of level ones doesn’t need a grid.” 

Theatre of the mind, Apollo repeated in his head. So, they really _were_ just going to sit on the floor and dick around. A bunch of jackasses, sitting in a circle.

Great. 

“Daddy!” Trucy cried, rolling her newly-acquired twenty-sided-die in the palm of her hand. “Let’s start, already!” 

“Yeah,” Athena chimed in. “It took me two hours to make my friggin’ character, so this better be good!” 

Apollo, Ema, and Prosecutor Gavin each delivered their own muttered form of, “Yeah, _get on with it_.” 

“All right, all right.” Mr. Wright scratched the back of his head—what, was he getting stage fright _now_? And he had been so overly-confident and demanding, before! “Just try to roll with things, all right? Respond naturally. Let your intuition guide you.” 

How cheesy. 

When Mr. Wright next spoke, his voice had changed. Apollo was reminded of the way he sounded in court: imposing, yes, but dynamic. Approachable, with just the slightest hint of naivety hidden behind all of those layers of sheer bluffing. 

“Our story,” Mr. Wright began, “starts with a wedding.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey, right on time! Color me surprised! The next chapter is where the D&D stuff ACTUALLY starts happening, and… oh man, guys. Get ready. Hey, can you guess which class everybody is going to be? Here’s a hint: they have terrible party balance, woo-hoo!
> 
> That update should (probably) come later this week, because I feel bad for only updating with… uh, this. Expect something Wednesday or Thursday—after my finals! Ugh, speaking of which… let’s hope for the best. If you root for me, I’ll root for you too, okay? Let’s get through this together!  
> (Incidentally, if Wednesday or Thursday roll around and you haven’t heard from me… eh, there'll definitely be something by next Sunday, I promise!)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I’m really glad! I know my writing is a little bumpy, and this whole thing is a pretty silly concept to begin with, but I’m so thankful that you’re reading! I just hope you’re having fun, too!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …sorry. I’ll never make a promise about an update ever again.
> 
> Anyway, DIEGESIS? What’s THAT?  
> The style I chose to write in is the only style I found even *remotely* natural. And trust me, I tried quite a few! I tried describing their rolls/how everybody was acting out of game, I tried italicizing the parts the game actually took place in… and, uh-uh. Nope. They were all awful.  
> I think what I ultimately decided on is… okay, if you can take everything with a non/diegetic grain of salt. Hopefully you all aren’t too confused!
> 
> Buckle up, friends, and get ready for some STUPID NAMES

Weddings are, of course, a happy occasion—for the couple, for the couple’s family, and for anybody lucky enough to be invited to a giant free party. The happiness of _this_ wedding, though, spreads far across the land, from the deepest bellies of the northern ice caves, to the highest mountains of the Dwarf kings of the west, and to the recesses of the Elvish wood that blankets the southern tip of the continent. For, on this day, the entire country of Angelite (full name: The Land of Our Lady the Queen of Angels… and Light) celebrates the marriage of their beloved Prince—specifically, his marriage to the Princess of Angelite’s eastern-border sister country: The Land of Shadow and Beauty. To the people of Angelite, though, it is only known as the Kingdom of Cur’ain. 

A few years ago, mentioning the name _Cur’ain_ was a major taboo in Angelese culture. The rulers of Angelite, the King and Queen themselves, uphold ultimate faith in the law of the land: they value honor, valor, and justice above all else. Cur’ain, though, has a very different outlook on the law. Instead of leaving justice up to the court, Cur’ain believes in divine judgment—that is, the Cur’ainese people devotedly worship their goddess, the Hallowed Mother, and leave the laws up for Her to decide. While Angelite thinks they have natural justice on their side, Cur’ain believes they have the support of a long-dead goddess. Each ideal is equally dangerous, in theory: each believes that they are the bearers of the ultimate truth. Because of this, the two neighboring countries have shared a bloody history of war and deceit.  

Around a year or so ago, Angelite and Cur’ain reached a shaky ceasefire. After centuries of fighting, the King and Queen of Angelite decided that their people had suffered long enough, and called for a permanent truce. Angelite had tried this tactic multiple times in the past, but this was different: for this time, Cur’ain actually agreed. But, they did so on one condition: that their two countries unite in an unbreakable political alliance.

To seal the deal, a marriage was arranged between the Prince of Angelite and the Princess of Cur’ain. Never mind the fact that the Prince and Princess had never met before—the marriage was on, and peace finally seemed near. 

While still bitter towards most Cur’ainese people, the general consensus in Angelite—where _you_ have been residing—seems to be a positive one. Peace has been a long time coming. And besides, in order to properly celebrate the union, the King and Queen have thrown a spectacular party at one of their many royal satellite palaces, this particular one on the border of Angelite and Cur’ain itself.

And luckily, you’ve all been invited. 

“You,” of course, referring to our group of heroes. Why each person decided to attend the party is up to them to reveal: are they great heroes invited because of their deeds? Do they work in politics, in law? Are they looking to cause a bit of trouble? The only note of certainty is that they have been living in Angelite for at least the past couple of weeks—everything else, however, is a mystery.

Maybe we should ask one of them. Let’s start with… the Paladin, over there. 

“H-huh? _Me_?”  

Yes, you. Go ahead and introduce yourself: name, appearance, why you’re here. Try to keep it brief, okay? 

“W-why do I have to go first…? I don’t even know what I’m doing!”  

Relax, Apollo. Just go with the flow. 

“Ugh….” An awkward cough. “Okay, well… uh. M-my name is… my name is Aphollo Justlight.” 

What a vivid imagination Mr. Justlight has.  

“W-whatever!” Aphollo clears his throat, apparently in embarrassment. “I’m… uh. I’m a Human Paladin. I’m wearing… heavy armor. That’s what I look like, I guess.” 

How old is Aphollo? How tall? What’s the color of his hair, his eyes? What makes Aphollo _special_?  

“I thought you told me to keep it brief!” Aphollo says. “Ugh… I’m, like… 24, I guess? U-umm, and… average height? Maybe a bit on the shorter side. Brown eyes, brown skin… brown hair, too. Maybe the hair is styled in a cool way, you know? Like, maybe it’s gelled up, so that it kind of looks like….” 

Horns? 

“Hey, they don’t look like horns at all! I can make fun of your hair too, you know!” 

Aphollo Justlight, Human Paladin, stands garbed and armed in the middle of the bustling royal courtyard. While not everybody in the Kingdom of Angelite received an invitation (god, could you imagine?), the King and Queen respect the lawful work of the Paladins and Clerics working under their reign. So, Aphollo—being a young Paladin ever-hopeful to appease the rulers of the land—gratefully accepted the invitation offered to him.

Does that sound okay? 

“H-huh? Uh… sure, I guess?” Aphollo scratches at his cheek. He turns around in a circle, taking in the world around him: Angelese people of all different races bounce, trot, and slither through the palace grounds. This palace, Aphollo knows, is the capitol building for one of the royal cities of the King and Queen of Angelite—a city called… Cap’itohl. 

“And you were getting on _my_ ass for creativity, Mr. Wright?” 

Language, Aphollo. 

The courtyard is decked out in glitzy wedding decorations: there’s glittering white ribbon strewn from tree to tree, magical lights waltzing inside ornate lampposts, and flower blossoms the size of Orc planted in every available nook and/or cranny. Stalls, too, fill the courtyard, selling food, clothing, alcohol, and various cultural knickknacks. The smell of baked Elvish bread hangs low and thick on the air, along with the aroma of wheaty, fresh-brewed Dwarvish ale, grilled owlbear meat, rising Halfling tea cakes, and other delicious scents that are impossible to distinguish from one another.

The invitation that Aphollo (and most of the other people present) received was not an invitation to the wedding ceremony itself; that is a sacred ritual only those of royal blood are allowed to witness. Instead, everybody has been invited to the reception… which is less of a reception, and more of a gigantic _carnival_. The wedding hasn’t even started yet, but the people are already rejoicing—they _have_ been, since dawn. 

“The wedding hasn’t happened yet?” Aphollo asks with a frown. “And we don’t get to see it, huh…? Will there be an announcement or something?” 

Aphollo reaches over his shoulder for his equipment pack—which not only contains his weapons, but also every item in his inventory. Crumpled at the bottom of the pack is the letter of invitation Aphollo initially received, which details the itinerary for the night. Aphollo gently folds back the envelope and slips out the note, careful not to rip it. It’s a little bit difficult for him to pull off, especially with his heavy gauntlets on. 

The note reads that, before the ceremony officially begins, the King and Queen of Angelite, as well as the Queen of Cur’ain, will address the courtyard from the castle smack-dab in the middle of it, from the highest balcony. Approximately forty-five minutes is supposed to pass before the royal family emerges again, this time with the married Prince and Princess beside them. The new royal couple is to give a rousing speech, before the festivities continue into the night. 

“What time is the first speech slated for?” Aphollo asks. 

From the current time—around fifteen minutes. 

“Ack. Uh, I guess I should get to a spot where I can see that balcony, huh?” 

In order to get the best view of the balcony, Aphollo has to walk around the courtyard to the opposite side of the castle—namely, towards the front. Most of the other party patrons are also starting to make their way there, and it’s getting awfully crowded awfully fast. There are people shoving, pushing, even running, and— 

“Auugh— _ouch_! Trucy, you _hit_ me!”  

—And one of those people collides straight into Aphollo. Hey—roll a Constitution saving throw. 

“W-what? Uh. T-this twenty-sided one, right?” 

… 

“…That’s a four. Plus… this number right here, I think, so… uh. Five.” 

Unfortunately for the great and mighty Paladin, the person plowing into him is enough to send him toppling to the grassy ground. Fellow party-goers grumble in annoyance and try to move around him. Some of them miss their mark, though, and end up stepping on his stomach and face. Trampling him, pretty much.

“Hey! What the _heck_!” 

“Oh no!” The girl who knocked Aphollo over is also a little shaken, but she stays on her feet. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Paladin! I didn’t mean to knock you down like that!” She extends her hand down for him to take. 

Aphollo grabs it readily, and uses the girl’s help to hoist himself back up. When he shakes the last of the stars from his eyes, he is able to take a better look at her.

The girl is a little shorter than he, with unblemished skin the shade of forget-me-not petals. Although she’s wearing a crooked wizard’s cap on her head, he catches the glimpse of two indigo, ram-like horns curling around her cheeks. When she smiles at him, her teeth are sharp, and a tail peeks out from behind her long, white cape to wag friendlily back and forth. 

Aphollo takes a step back. “A _demon_?”

“Not a demon, silly! I’m a Tiefling!” The girl tips her white wizard’s hat at him. The sheer size of it completely dwarfs her entire stature. “I may be related to demons, but that’s irrelevant! How would you like it if I called you a monkey, huh, Mr. Paladin?” 

“T-Tiefling?” Aphollo repeats, looking a little nervous. “I remember reading about those. Aren’t they usually kind of rare…?” 

“Not really! Besides, look around you!” The girl gestures to the crowd undulating around them. “There’s so many different kinds of people here! Gnomes, Genasi, Aarakocra… everybody’s come out of the woodwork for this big event!” When she turns back to Aphollo, a frown clouds her countenance. “Is a Tiefling really the strangest thing you’ve seen tonight, Mister…?” 

Aphollo stares at her blankly for a second or two, before finally catching her drift. “O-oh, I’m Aphollo Justlight! And I’m fine!” 

The Tiefling giggles. “Good to hear! I’m glad I didn’t hurt you too badly.” She holds out another hand. “My name’s Truth! It’s nice to meet you!” 

Aphollo takes her hand and gives it a delicate shake. “Truth? That’s your… name?” 

“I chose it myself! Don’t you know anything about Tieflings, Pholly?” 

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you’re _sticking_ with that nickname.” 

“A lot of us choose our own names—and most of the time, we choose names based on ideals we strive to follow.” Truth pulls her hand away from Aphollo’s, only to clench it into a determined fist. “And I believe in Truth! Also… it’s a cool-sounding name, don’t you think?” 

Aphollo shrugs. “I mean, it’s not as cool as _Justice_.”

Truth looks like she’s about to say something snippy, before a realization sweeps through her mind and dawns on her face. “Wait a second—we don’t have time for this! We need to make it to the front of the palace, stat! If you make me miss seeing the King and Queen, I’ll never forgive you!” 

Before Aphollo has time to object, Truth links arms with him and pulls him along beside her. With the two of them working as a unit, the path to the front courtyard is easily forged.  

As they walk, Truth attempts to make polite conversation. In vain, perhaps—judging by the constipated look sewing wrinkles on Aphollo’s broad forehead.

“So, what’s your deal, Pholly? What brings you all the way out here?” she asks. When Aphollo doesn’t answer right away, she lightly squeezes the meat of his arm. 

Aphollo startles. “Huh? What? Oh. I—uh—I was invited.” He slouches his shoulders. “Isn’t that why everybody’s here?” 

“Well, sure! But why did you _come_? You have to have some sort of reason! I mean… it’s not just because you wanted to attend a big party, right?” 

“…I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Think about it! Anybody who’s anybody is here to celebrate, right? It’s a great opportunity to meet people!” Truth’s tail begins to wag a little faster as she speaks, and Aphollo has to contort his body at an awkward angle to avoid being smacked by it. “I’m here to try to get my name out there! I’m going to be the greatest Illusion Wizard in the entire material plane someday, you know! But, in order to do that… I need to study.” 

“Study, huh?” Aphollo snorts. “You have to _study_ magic?” 

“Sure do! You’ll know all about that soon, I’m sure!” Truth covers her mouth as she giggles. “My daddy was a great wizard, and he taught me a lot of stuff growing up. But, after he went away… I had to self-teach myself a lot of tricks. I think I’m finally ready to be initiated into an actual school, though! I just need to find somebody willing to accept me!” 

“So you’re here to network, basically.” 

“Basic— _uwahh_!” 

Truth, having been distracted by her conversation with Aphollo, runs smack into yet another unassuming patron of the party. This time, though, Truth is the one to lose her balance and tumble hard to the ground.

The person she ran into stops in her tracks and turns to face them. 

… 

Athena. This is you. 

“Huh? Really, Mr. Wright?!”  

“You’re using the Crash-Into Hello trope _twice_?” Aphollo mutters.  

He’s then struck by lightning and takes a D4’s worth of damage. 

“ _WHAT_?” 

When the woman turns all the way around, her radiance catches both Truth and Aphollo off guard. “Radiance” is, indeed, the only word worth using—it’s as if the woman is _glowing_. Her skin is clear and bright, her smoked-auburn hair long and wavy. Something in her eyes, in her gait, in her breath—something about her sings _divinity_.

Truth sits up and brushes the dirt from her white robes. It leaves a smeared stain, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “Wow! You’re so pretty, miss!” 

“Hey,” Aphollo says, “how come I didn’t get a really lavish description? You made me do it myself.”  

“Well, Mr. Wright helped me make my character, so he already knows all about me.” The woman laughs heartily before clearing her throat. When she next speaks, her voice is deeper. “I mean, uh. Thank you, little Tiefling! I hope that I didn’t hurt you too much.” She reaches out to help Truth back to her feet. 

“No! Not at all!” Truth doesn’t let go of the woman’s hand right away, instead clutching it hard and staring at her with sparkling eyes.

The woman takes a tiny step back, apparently a bit unsettled.

“Umm! If you don’t mind me asking… who are you?” Truth plays with the front fringe of her hat, sheepishly. “I usually don’t ask that of everybody I accidentally run into, I swear! But… you’re just so _pretty_!” 

“Umm, well… thank you. I’m flattered.” The woman gently pulls her arm away from Truth’s hold, and then uses it to take a flourishing bow. “My name is Atheinah Cyrkes! Oh, and I’m an Aasimar!” 

“A _what_?” Aphollo asks. 

They’re essentially just Tieflings, only with angel relatives instead of demons.  

“I don’t recall reading about those in the handbook.” 

They’re not _in_ the handbook. Sorry I didn’t mention that there were other options—but you chose a Human, anyway, so don’t try to tell me that it would’ve mattered.

“Are you guys heading to see the King and Queen’s speech?” Atheinah asks with a smile. “How about we go together? I’m all by myself here, anyway… and it’s gotten kind of lonely, haha.” She plays with the locket draped around her neck—it’s big, bright, and blue, completely contrasting with the daffodil-yellow of the leather armor she’s wearing. “All I’ve been doing is buying souvenirs for my Fey friends back home… ah, I miss them.” 

Aphollo frowns. “I thought you just said you were an Aasimar.” 

“Well, yeah. But I’m also a Warlock, contracted with the Fey! Kinda complicated situation, I know, but life’s like that sometimes.” 

Aphollo grumbles under his breath, something about _ham-fisted exposition_. Whatever it is, it’s probably something not worth repeating.

“We’d love to walk with you!” Truth says, gleefully. “We have to hurry, though. I’m short, so I want a good spot up front!”

And thus, they hurry.

* * *

 The three travelers finally manage to make their way to the front of the castle. Unfortunately, though, the people have already pretty much finished gathering. There isn’t a lot of room to squeeze in—not if you want to actually _see_ the royals, anyway. 

“But we _have_ to see the royals!” Truth cries, stamping a gloved hand to her cheek. “I wanna squeeze in somewhere! Anywhere!”

Well, how about a Perception check? 

… 

“Five,” says Truth. “Oh man, dumb dice!”  

“Eleven,” says Atheinah. “I have such good Wisdom bonuses, too! Lamesauce.” 

“Twenty-one,” says Aphollo. “…Uh.”

From what Aphollo can tell, there isn’t any room left in the center of the courtyard. However, there’s a bit of an opening towards the front of the gathering—close enough for Truth to be satisfied, surely. However, it’s obvious why not a lot of people are there: the spot is right next to the Angelese royal band, currently strumming a peaceful wedding ballad. Though their music sounds decently pleasant, they’re quite _loud_ , even from their current distance away. A few royal guards are stationed near the band, and each one of them wears a hideous scowl on their face. One of them even has tears brimming in his eyes. 

“…Yeesh. I hope they’re paid well.” 

“Well, Aphollo? Do you see any place good?” Truth asks. 

“Of course I do. You just heard Mr. Wright explain everything.” 

“I didn’t hear anything! Who’s this ‘ _Mr. Wright_ ’ you speak of?” 

Aphollo glares at her, eyes bulging out of his skull. “Are you serious? He just—ugh, whatever. Follow me, I guess.”

Aphollo grumpily (“I am not _grumpy_! Okay, now I'm grumpy—but only because you assumed that I was!”) leads Atheinah and Truth to the front. The closer they get, the louder the music from the band becomes—until it is impossible to think, much less form comprehensible sentences. 

Atheinah raps her knuckles on Aphollo’s chainmail to get his attention. She mouths something, but her words are swallowed up by the music.  

“What was that?” Aphollo says, but even he can’t hear his own voice—not above that jamming lyre, anyway. 

Atheinah cups her hands around her mouth and starts to shout. Not that Aphollo can really tell; he can make out what he thinks is the word “liposuction,” but… for some reason, he thinks that’s probably not right. 

“Athena—Atheinah— _I can’t hear you over the_ —” 

The music cuts out. 

“— _Obnoxious music_ ,” Aphollo finishes shouting, before he has time to stop himself. His volume makes Truth and Atheinah jump—as well as makes the royal guards, the band members, and everybody else in a sixty-foot radius turn to look at him. 

Heat boils up in Aphollo’s face. “O-oh. Uh. Whoops.” 

“…Ach. That’s not a very nice thing to say to Angelite’s royal band, is it—Herr Paladin?” 

“Huh.” 

One of the band members—the front man, by the looks of it—strums a softer, sweeter tune on the strings of his lyre. He’s a tall man, garbed in fine, plum-purple robes accented in silver silk. His fingers, plucking the lyre’s strings, are long, and adorned with giant jeweled rings and shiny bands. His skin is bronze, and his eyes—when one opens to shoot Aphollo a wink—are steely blue. By all accounts, he seems Human… at least he would, if not for the slight point of his ears. They don’t quite reach the length of a Wood or High Elf’s, but they still have a definite Elvish shape to them. 

“A Half-Elf,” Atheinah concludes. “That’s gotta be it, right?” 

The man stops his strumming and looks up to send Atheinah a stunning smile. “Ja, baby. Tell me—did you like the music, Fräulein Angel? It looks like you did. Why, you’re practically glowing.” 

Her cheeks redden. “Oh, that? H-haha, that’s just… my face.” Atheinah reaches up to run a hand through her hair. “Umm, the music was a little loud, but… it was still really pretty.” 

“Yeah!” Truth adds, nodding her head in fervent agreement. “You’re really talented! And you’re a member of the royal band? That’s awesome! Do you play for the King and Queen all of the time? What’re they like? I bet they’re so _cool_!” 

The lyre-player reaches up to brush his golden bangs away from his face. Much like Atheinah’s aura, his hair also seems like it’s glowing—but that doesn’t appear to be the fault of divine intervention, but rather, a lucky draw in the genetic lottery. 

“…You flatter me, Herr Wright.” Perhaps the fingers around his bangs tighten, just a tad. “Nein, Fräulein Witch—you misunderstand. I’m not actually a member of the royal band. This is just… a gig.” 

“Gig?” Truth asks. “What do you mean?” 

He strums another note. “I’m only a wandering minstrel, you see. I have no home, no allegiance. I only asked if I could have a jam session with the band, and they graciously allowed me to participate.” He cocks his head in the direction of the other musicians. “I know none of these people.” 

Aphollo puffs out a breath of hot air. “You’re telling me that, on the Prince’s wedding day, the royal band let some random shmuck play with them?” 

“This random shmuck,” the man says, “is named Klavi’or Gavindel. And he happens to be very good at what he does.”  

“…Sure.” 

“Some people have no ear for art, I suppose.” 

Aphollo scowls up at the Half-Elf, his face still flushed pink from the earlier embarrassment. Klavi’or is at least a head or so taller than Aphollo, anyway—but the fact that he’s perched on a stage only makes their difference in stature all the more dramatic. Aphollo doesn’t seem fazed, though.

“That _noise_ you call ‘music’ isn’t _art_! I like… mellower stuff, all right?” 

“Mellow? I was playing plenty mellow. I simply had to play loudly so the people in the back could hear me, ja?” 

“Whatever!” Aphollo says. “It’s still… noise!” 

“I’ll say. This Human’s got a brain in him, I’ll give him that.” 

That voice wasn’t from the bickering duo, nor did it seem to come from the giggling Atheinah or Truth. No—the new voice, soft and feminine, actually came from the direction of the royal guards. While most of them stand firmly at the ready, one of them maintains a more informal position, with arms crossed over her chest and sneer scrawled across her face. 

“I’ve had to listen to this garbage for _hours_! I’ve been standing here since sun-up, damn it!” The woman is tall, rivaling Klavi’or himself, and speaks with an ode of authority. The shape of her face is long and slender, and her autumn-brown hair—tied up in a messy ponytail—frames it nicely. Her pointed ears jut from her forest of locks, significantly longer than anybody else’s in the group.  

“…And I’m minding my own business, when who comes along? This… this… glimmerous _half-breed_!” She points an accusatory finger at Klavi’or, who shrinks back in offense. “He asks to play, and everybody just… lets him? Why?! He’s not even that good! The band’s supposed to be playing pretty elevator music, but this guy comes in and starts shredding it on his friggin’ _lyre_! This is the royal city of Capi’tohl—not some sleazy tavern!”  

“What’s an elevator?” Truth asks. 

“ _Ugh_!” 

“Fräulein Guard,” Klavi’or says as he swings his lyre onto his back, “your words cut deep, you know.” 

“Oh, they’d better!” The guard’s eyebrow twitches. “I’m not going to cause a scene now, not on the royal wedding day… but you’d better believe that, when the night is over, I’m going to _roast_ your _ass_ for lèse-majesté!” 

Ema, pardon your French. 

“A-ah. Sorry, Mr. Wright. I’ll be more careful next time.” 

Atheinah raises her hand, as if to ask a question. “Umm. Sorry for interrupting, but….” Her lips pull back in a grimace. “…You’re a _guard_? I don’t remember you saying that when we were making our characters….” 

“What does it look like I am, sweetie? Of course I’m a guard! I’ve been with the royal guard—the Royal Police, that is—for years!” She snaps her legs together and then salutes, right hand over her eyes. “Lieutenant Eyma Su’kai, reporting for duty!” 

“This guard has been shooting me looks all day,” Klavi’or says. He hops down from his spot on the stage to join the building group on the grass. “Hmm. Don’t tell her I said this, but her crush on me… it’s a bit obvious, ja?” 

“How _dare_ you!”  

_Ka-tonk_ _!_  

“…F-Fräulein Detective, that was a _die_! That _hurt_! You almost hit me in the _eye_!”  

“Oh, quit being such a diva.” 

“Do remember that I sign your paycheck!” 

“…Nnghk!” 

No fighting during the game, guys. 

Aphollo is, surprisingly, the one to clear his throat and draw attention back to the matter at hand. “Yeah, uh. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of announcement ceremony… in fifteen minutes? How long has it been, exactly?” 

“Yeah! I wanna see the King and Queen already!” Truth chimes in. 

“Well, I just got the signal to stop playing,” Klavi’or says. “So, it shouldn’t be long at all, now. Ah—look, there. On the balcony.” 

All of their heads swivel up to face the balcony built into the great castle above. The doors leading into the palace open with a droning creak, and every conversation in the entire courtyard wisps into silence.

* * *

 Two pairs of figures emerge from the castle interior, slow and elegant. One pair, all of our heroes know, is the King and Queen of Angelite themselves. The King is a large man, with a scruffy face and wrinkled royal robes, but he has an air of honesty to him. The Queen, on the other hand, is a rather petite woman, with oval-framed lenses and a smile kind enough to vanquish any lie. 

The other duo can only be assumed to be the Queen of Cur’ain and her husband. None of our heroes have ever seen them or their likeness portrayed in any manner before. Interesting to note is that the Queen of Cur’ain walks in front of her husband, not in-step. Her ornate, white gown rolls on the stone behind her, and her headgear casts most of her face in shadow. Her husband, still a few paces behind her, is dressed in what appears to be military gear: not a royal outfit, but a uniform. 

“Wow, actual _royalty_ ,” Truth awes, jabbing Aphollo in the stomach with her elbow. He doesn’t actually feel it, thanks to his chainmail armor, but he does hear her voice.

“…You should probably be quiet,” Aphollo whispers to her. “I don’t think royalty takes very kindly to being interrupted.” 

He can see Eyma shooting the two of them a nasty look. 

The King of Angelite holds his hand out over the crowd. He holds it there for a moment or two, and then opens his mouth to speak—but the instant the first guttural noise leaves his throat, his face contorts in confusion. He looks… lost, almost like he’s forgotten something. 

The Queen of Angelite glances over at him in concern, and they seem to exchange silent words of deliberation. Eventually, the Queen sighs, and she holds her hand out in her husband’s stead. 

“Fellow countrymen,” she says to the crowd. Somehow, her voice carries through on the air crystal clearly. She sounds like she’s standing next to the heroes, rather than several hundred feet above them. Perhaps her voice is being amplified by a spell.  

“…For too long has blood been shed in the name of this border on which we stand. Centuries of pain, death, and agony have accrued in this soil, poisoning the earth. Hope, for so long, seemed completely out of reach.” 

“How very romantic,” Aphollo remarks. “I’m sure the new royal couple is touched.”

Aphollo is struck by another rogue bolt of lightning. Take another D4 of damage.  

“A-are you serious?!”  

The Queen continues her speech. “But today, all of that pain and suffering will finally be put to rest. For, on this day, the countries of Angelite and Cur’ain shall know war no longer. On this day, there will be no more _them_ —there will only be _us_ , and _ours_ , as we celebrate our union. The Prince of Angelite and Princess Ray’fah of Cur’ain shall be wed, and our two countries may finally be at peace.” 

She lowers her hand and takes a step back, with a resolute nod. The entire crowd erupts in ferocious applause. 

The Queen of Cur’ain never once utters a word. Even as the Queen of Angelite bids a polite farewell to her subjects and drags the King back into the castle by the ear, she and her husband remain silent—until they, too, disappear back through the double doors. The Queen of Cur’ain moves like a ghost, silent and eerie, with her robes billowing mistily behind her. Eventually, the great balcony doors close shut. 

The crowd is silent for only a few moments, before the bustle picks right back up where it left off. 

“…Well.” Atheinah twists a lock of hair around her finger. “That was… shorter than I expected, to be honest.” 

“To lay eyes on two breeds of royalty, from this intimate a position….” Klavi’or leans forward, hands snug on his hips. “…It’s truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience, ja?” 

“I mean, I guess so. I’m happy I came and all, but… man. The Queen of Cur’ain is kind of… _creepy_ , isn’t she?” 

“Wasn’t Cur’ain described as the Land of Pain and Suffering, earlier?” Aphollo asks.  

“The Land of Shadow and Beauty!” Truth says. “But, hmm… I see what Atheinah means. I wish I knew more about her….” 

How about a History check? 

Out of everybody’s rolls, it’s actually Truth herself who knows the most. Maybe she’s picked up on some pockets of information, during her magical studies.

She pushes her index fingers together. “Umm… okay, well, my memory is a little fuzzy, but I think I remember some stuff. Cur’ain is super religious—not only that, but their monarchy is super strong because of it! Every queen has really intense magical power, because they’re—uh, supposedly—descended from their Hallowed Mother herself. It’s said that the Queen—Queen Gha’ran, that is—specializes in Necromancy: that she can talk to, and even revive, the dead!” She shudders at the thought. “Ah… Necromancy is a scary school of magic. I’d rather stick to Illusion, personally.” 

“Is Necromancy, like… a _common_ thing?” Aphollo asks. He seems troubled, if the absentminded toying with his hair-horns is anything to go by. 

… 

“Nein, of course not,” Klavi’or is revealed to know. Bards do tend to know a little bit of everything, after all—and a _whole_ lot of nothing. “It’s a bit of a taboo. Violating the flow of life and death like that… it’s spooky, wouldn’t you say—Herr Paladin?” 

“J-just because I’m a Paladin doesn’t mean I’m super knowledgeable about this whole magical god stuff.” 

Hey, that reminds me. Who’s Aphollo’s patron deity, anyway? 

He suddenly gets very quiet. 

He has to have a patron deity, you know. That’s the Paladin’s whole shtick. 

“W-well,” Aphollo says, “you know. They had this… big list of deities in the back of the book, right? But I didn’t really recognize any of them. But then, at the very, very end, they had this section on ‘real’ gods and goddesses you could use, and—” 

“You _loser_ ,” Eyma says, jaw dropping. “Don’t tell me you actually wrote down _Apollo_.” 

“W-what was I supposed to do?! I didn’t know anybody else! Did you want me to choose some weird, made-up god I didn’t care about?” 

“What about Athena?” asks Atheinah. “Athena’s pretty sweet.” 

Interesting. Does Apollo match Aphollo’s alignment, though? 

Aphollo stares, dumbly. “Alignment? T-this thing in the corner: ‘lawful neutral’? Oh, uh, I didn’t check. I just figured that, since Apollo is the god of truth—” 

“And music,” Klavi’or adds with a less-than-subtle wink. 

“…Since Apollo is the god of truth, I thought I could just kind of… worship the truth, rather than a deity. I like pursuing justice—I don’t need a god to do that, right?”

I guess it doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. Remind me not to use that as a plot point—that would be too silly, even for _my_ tastes.

“It’s kind of funny, though,” Truth says, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “That’s what Angelite believes in too, right? Truth—heehee—and justice! And yet they’re forming an alliance with a country whose monarch practices Necromancy….” 

Eyma nods her head, brown hair bobbing around her shoulders. “There’s a reason we’ve been at war for centuries. Our ideals are as different as night from day. And, if you ask me, this alliance itself is kind of… suspicious.” 

“Oh?” Atheinah’s eyes light up. “Suspicious, huh? Like, you think there’s something more sinister at work  here?” 

“…I don’t really know,” Eyma admits. “It’s just… we’ve been at war for literal _centuries_. Every King and Queen of Angelite has tried to negotiate peace with Cur’ain, but they always refuse. Even these current monarchs have tried over and over again, but—nothing.” She taps a finger to her chin. “And then one day, Cur’ain just… gives in, and says they want a truce. No warning, no nothing. What the heck happened to make them change their minds so drastically?” 

“They’re forming a strong political alliance, ja? And that includes a militaristic alliance, I'd assume.” Klavi’or hums. “Maybe there’s some sort of threat approaching that they can’t conquer by themselves, so they’re asking their neighbors for help.” 

“It’s not like I _know_! I was just saying. I’ve been in this city a long time, and I’ve seen the border wars up close and personal.” Eyma’s eyes suddenly turn sullen, and she stares down at the grass beneath her boots. “…It’s just weird, that’s all.” 

Weird, indeed. 

What are everybody’s Passive Perception scores, by the way? 

“Passive Perception? Oh, this little box here?” Truth blinks. “Uh, eleven.” 

“Eleven!” 

“Yeah, eleven.” 

“…N-nein.” 

“What’s wrong with yours, Prosecutor Gavin?” 

“No, not ‘nein’, Fräulein Witch— _nine_. That’s the score. It’s… low, I guess.” 

And Aphollo’s? 

He scrunches his eyebrows together and pokes at his forehead with his index finger. “Uh, seventeen.” 

_Seventeen_? Was that calculated correctly? 

“Uh. It’s my… feat?” He continues worrying the middle of his forehead. There’s going to be a nice red mark there when he pulls his finger away. “I’m Observant.” 

Ah, a _variant_ Human. Of course. I should’ve known we had a troublemaker in our midst. 

“…Excuse me?” 

Well, Aphollo—with senses honed to near perfection—is able to pick up on something… odd. It almost sounds like rumbling… or _feels_ like rumbling, coming from the interior of the great castle above. The ground shakes, and the castle walls tremble. 

“…Umm, guys?” Aphollo says. “Do you… feel that?” 

“Huh?” Truth frowns at him and gives his armor a little tug. “Pholly, what’s wrong?” 

“Ja, Herr Paladin—you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Klavi’or says. 

Speaking of ghosts—as a Paladin, Aphollo is naturally in-tune with divine magic, and can sense when something nearby doesn’t quite align with the natural order of the plane. That ability of his seems to be acting up; his skin prickles into pointed gooseflesh, and the air in his lungs suddenly _chills_. He senses something dark, something odious… yes: it is, undoubtedly, the teeth-chattering, earth-rotting feeling of the presence of _undead_. And it’s nearby—nearby, and getting closer. 

“I… don’t have a good feeling about this.” 

Accurate observation, Mr. Seventeen Passive Perception: for the instant the words leave his mouth, the towering castle walls suddenly _burst_ , as if a bomb was detonated from within. Rubble cascades down from above and, from out of the castle, something rises up into the sky. Something huge, dark, and winged. 

And breathing fire. 

“Huh,” Atheinah says. “I thought we were going to build up to the dragons—but I guess leading with one is fine, too!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, whaddya think? I hope it wasn’t too bad. This is going to be the main meat of the story, so… uh… you know. (See, this is what I meant when I said this was my first time juggling so many characters in one scene. Please… bear with me.) 
> 
> Ta-dah, here’s everybody’s classes! Thanks for playing! Except for, uh, Ema—it’s not mentioned explicitly in this chapter, but she’s a rogue. I was going to have her be a ranger, but there’s a reason I didn’t end up going with that. A reason you’ll learn about in around… ten chapters! mwuhahaha
> 
> Oh, before I forget: I have a question. There were breaks in the middle of this chapter, yes? Do you guys prefer really *long* chapters, such as this one, or would you prefer smaller chunks? Like, if I had made chapter breaks at those lines, would it have been better for you? I would like to know for… reasons… that may or may not include the next chapter (which could potentially be… well, longer than this one, let’s just say).  
> I mean, it’s a double-edged sword: on one hand, breaking it up would mean that you guys won’t get to read as much. But, it would also be more manageable, both for me and you (I’d imagine) -- and maybe I’ll actually be able to, uh, write more/proof better (HAHAHA that’s a laugh). I dunno -- do either of the, like, two of you still reading this particularly care?
> 
> …Phew! Everything is long-winded this week, isn’t it? Thank you so much for reading, despite that -- I really, really appreciate it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie it’s combat time  
> Interested in playing along? I constructed physical character sheets for everyone, so you can see their stats, spells, gear, etc.! You can predict what stupid stuff they’ll do, and then be annoyed when they don’t do it! And you can be DOUBLY annoyed when you inevitably find a game-breaking mistake that I made! You can find everybody [over here](http://gavinner.tumblr.com/post/154627129776/hey-guys-so-if-you-dont-know-im-in-the-middle), on my tumblr (right click & view image for full size, but let me know if you have trouble).  
> …did you catch my really subtle self-plug? Ha. Haha. Hahahahaha
> 
> So, I didn’t get a clear response about the chapter question I had, so… uh. Here’s what I did: this chapter and the next were one cohesive chapter in my Word doc, but the word count was so high, I decided to split them into two… but I’m posting them at the same time! I know that I, personally, get intimidated by really long chapters… so I hope this is a sort of happy-medium.

As the rubble from the castle topples and tumbles from overhead, our heroes are forced to prove how dexterous they really are. Eyma and Klav’ior dodge the falling pieces of stone with ease, while Atheinah and Truth only barely avoid being struck. Aphollo, though—with his genius idea of making Dexterity his dump stat—takes a brick straight to the head, and he crumples onto the ground. 

“Ggghh—!” 

“ _Pholly_!” Truth cries, somewhere from within all of the dust. Aphollo can’t really make out her form… or anybody’s form, for that matter. The blow left him with a reeling head, and the thousands of pounds worth of dust swirling in the air is making it difficult for him to tell up from down. 

He feels somebody tugging at his shoulders. “C’mon, Pholly! You gotta get up! It’s just a flesh wound, right?” 

Aphollo’s only response is a groan. 

He hears Atheinah’s voice ring from somewhere near him. “All right, let’s _do_ this! I’m gonna give that dragon a piece of my mind!” 

“Aasimar, no! Are you _crazy_?!”  

“Ack—let go of me! Lemme at ‘em!” 

When Aphollo’s vision focuses, he sees the shadowy, dusty figures of the people he had been mulling around earlier, all of them silhouetted by the image of the flaming castle and roaring beast above. Truth is kneeled over him, on his right. On his left is Klavi’or, with an extremely concerned frown upsetting his features. 

“Herr Fore—Herr Paladin,” he says, reaching out to touch Aphollo’s face. “Your forehead… is bleeding.” 

“H-huh?” Aphollo instantly shies away from his touch, and ends up pressing more into Truth in the process. “I-I’m fine! You don’t need to… touch me! I’m not hurt in real life, you know!”  

Truth lightly presses her index and middle fingers to Aphollo’s forehead, and he yelps. When she pulls her hand away, she observes the red blood trickling down her glove in disgust.

“It looks really bad, Pholly,” she says. “Are you going to be all right?” 

“Yes, I’m _fine_!” Aphollo shakes both Truth and Klavi’or off of him and gets to his feet. “Besides, isn’t there something more important going on, here? As in, the _dragon_?”  

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” A few paces away, Atheinah is locked in a chokehold, courtesy of Eyma. She’s gagging, but manages to continue talking. “We— _grrk_ —need to go fight it! The whole royal family is in there—we have to save them!” 

Eyma tightens her hold around Atheinah’s neck, and she gags a little louder. 

“Believe me, I want to save them more than anybody!” Eyma says. “But do you know what that thing is?! It’s no ordinary dragon—it’s a _shadow_ dragon! Not that we’d be able to stand a chance against a regular dragon, either, but… this is even worse!”  

The beast roars from above. It swings its massive, black tail into one of the towers, leaving only rubble in its wake. 

“So,” Eyma says, “I think it would be a smart move to, uh, _get the heck out of here_.” 

“What?!” Atheinah cries. “We can’t _retreat_! What kind of lameos are you?!” 

Aphollo, though—not wanting to get struck by yet another falling piece of debris—nods his head in agreement and beats a hasty getaway away from the tumbledown castle. Truth and Klavi’or are quick to follow, while Eyma is forced to literally _drag_ Atheinah away. 

“Ouch—hey, let go of me, would you? Who do you think you are?!” 

“Excuse you! I’m the person who’s going to save your ass—” 

Ema. 

“—Aaaassssimar. I’m the one who’s going to save you, Aasimar, so you better shut up and stop struggling!” 

“You got a lot of nerve! Let go of me already—!” 

The entire courtyard plaza has descended into complete and utter chaos. People are screaming, booths are turned over, bodies lay limp. Royal guards march in step, lances and swords at the ready, heading toward the castle. 

Eyma looks over at the soldiers with a torn frown. “I should go help…” she murmurs with a swallow. “…But I need to make sure everybody evacuates safely, too. Ugh—you all need to get out of here already!” 

“What do you _think_ we’re trying to do?” Aphollo asks. 

“Well, if you’re trying to make your way to the exit, you’re doing a pretty crappy job! The castle grounds only have one exit, remember? And it’s through the main gate, towards the back of the castle!” Eyma releases her hold on Atheinah to make her way to the front of the group. “Follow me!” 

The other four heed her command without a single beat of hesitation. But, just as Aphollo takes his step, another ghastly, cold feeling _twangs_ in his heart and his nerves. His blood runs cold: _undead_. But where, exactly—? 

“Ach,” Klavi’or says. “Herr Paladin, take a closer look at those bodies. They’re… squirming.” 

He’s right. The bodies littering the castle grounds, gnarled and flattened (having been trampled by their fellow party-goers, presumably), are… well, just as Klavi’or had said: they’re _squirming_.

Their heads roll, and their bodies, jostling like a marionette on squirrely strings, pull themselves upright. Their teeth chatter, and they swivel their heads one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees towards the heroes.

“…Those would be the _undead_ things, I’m guessing,” Aphollo mutters.

“Z-zombies?!” Truth covers her mouth with her hand. “Is this the work of the Cur’ainese Queen? Is this—Necromancy?” 

Unfortunately, this isn’t the time for speculation. I’m going to need everyone to roll for initiative.  

… 

It’s Eyma who’s quick on her feet. She reaches to her waist and draws her weapon—a gleaming, steel shortsword—out from its sheath. She stalks forward and, graceful on her toes, slashes straight into the arm of one of the nearby undead. The creature—probably some sort of Dwarf, in life—growls in pain. 

“Booyah, got it!” she cheers. 

“Hey, that reminds me,” Aphollo says as he pulls out his longsword. “Uh… what class are you supposed to be, Eyma?” 

“Huh? Oh! I’m a Rogue, obviously!” It’s a little bit difficult to hear her over all of the groaning of the undead and roaring of the, uh, _dragon_. “The Royal Guard uses me whenever they need the assistance of an expert in investigative matters, you see! If they ever need to unlock something by unconventional methods, or if they need somebody to take care of some dirty work… I’m their man!” 

Talking’s a free action and all, but the middle of combat isn’t really the time or place to be sharing your life story with the audience. 

“O-oh. Sorry, Mr. Wright. Whose turn is it, then?” 

Truth’s. 

“All right, here I go!” Truth bounds forward into the fray and casts her gaze on one of the first undead she sees: the corpse of a bleeding, snarling Halfling. From her cape, she pulls out something long, slender, and gold—a makeshift wand, judging by the shape—and flicks it in the Halfling’s direction. 

“ _Fire Bolt_!” she shouts, and a spiral of blue-and-white flame erupts from the tip of the wand. It lashes out at the undead creature like the curl of a whip, but just _barely_ whiffs: only the top of the Halfling’s head is singed. 

“H-huh? I missed?” She tugs at the edges of her wizard’s hat. “I guess Evocation magic isn’t really my forte….” 

“No sweat, Truth! I got it!” Atheinah rushes over to Truth’s side. She places a hand to the locket around her neck and closes her eyes, concentrating for a moment or two, before she points to the undead Halfling and shouts, “How about an Eldritch Blast to the face?!” 

A beam of magical energy shoots from Atheinah’s finger, smoldering in a spinning salvo of reds, blues, yellows, and greens. It hits its target dead on, and the force is enough to blow its arm clean off. It doesn’t seem to mind, though. 

“…Its _arm_ came off?” Atheinah’s peppiness knobs down a switch. “Eww. That’s disgusting.” 

The undead Dwarf next to Eyma decides to stop messing around, and lunges for her. It lands a slamming blow right into the divot of armor between Eyma’s shoulder blade and her neck. She wretches back in pain and spits out a curse. 

“Fffffiretruck,” she mumbles to herself. “I don’t have that many hit points to begin with….” 

“You think _you’re_ doing bad?” asks Aphollo. “I’ve been struck by magic lightning twice and got hit in the head with a bunch of rocks. I’m almost _dead_.”

He sighs to himself and grits his teeth. From his position, he can see four active zombies: the Dwarf that just smacked Eyma, the Halfling near Truth and Atheinah, and two others—a duo of Humans—shambling their way towards the lot of them. There’s other undead around, sure, but they seem to be preoccupied by other screaming people. You know, easier targets who don’t have swords.

Aphollo approaches the Halfling on Eyma, clinking all the while in his chainmail armor, and attempts to slash it with his longsword. He completely misses, though, and almost ends up stabbing Eyma in the face.

“Hey—! Watch it, Human!” 

“S-sorry, jeez!” 

The undead Human duo are fully upon Eyma and Aphollo, now. One of them attempts to swing at Eyma, but whiffs. The other, however, takes a nice whack at Aphollo—and lands a hit right in the chest. 

“Ggnk—!” 

Oh, look at that—Aphollo is bloodied. Not that it matters in this edition, but being below half health isn’t a position you want to be in during _any_ game.

Indeed, blood has begun to ooze from the wound on his abdomen, sinking through his armor. Combined with the open cut on his forehead and burnt tips of his electrified hair, Aphollo looks a little worse for wear.

“I-I’m fine!” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about me! I’m not going to die during the very first encounter! Besides, Mr. Wright wouldn’t let that happen… right?”

There’s no favorites in _Dungeons and Dragons._ Who lives and who dies—that’s up for the dice to decide, not me.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Klavi’or, instead of drawing some sort of weapon, only slings his lyre around to his front. “Hmm. I don’t particularly like those chances,” he says with a musical purr. “So… how would you like a song, _meine liebe_?” 

Aphollo glances over at him. “…What.” 

“This one goes out to my lovely Herr Paladin, ja?” He strums a note on his lyre and hums a tune—deep and sweet—from the back of his throat. 

“Oh my god,” Eyma says, “he’s actually _singing_. Kill me.”

“ _Hmm, hmm, where’s this love headed? Either go ask the wind… or better yet, go ask—_ Herr Paladin!”

The raw, burning skin on Aphollo’s forehead tingles, before he feels the pain from the blow gently swallowed up in one delicate chord from the lyre. 

“H-huh? You can _heal_ me?” Aphollo dabs at the skin of his forehead; indeed, the wound isn’t bleeding anymore. “Um… thanks? I didn’t need healing though—really, I’m _fine_.” 

“Ja, ja—whatever you say.” Klavi’or swiftly pushes his lyre out of his way and reaches for his waist. He pulls out a dagger from his beltline and darts towards the undead Dwarf—and then stabs it right in the neck. It cries, weakly, before collapsing to the ground. 

“Hey,” Eyma sneers in Klavi’or’s direction, “no kill stealing!” 

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort, Fräulein Guard.” 

“Listen here, half-breed. We have rules around these parts about people like you—” 

“ _Eeeeeek_!”  

The undead Halfling mulling around the two girls made a successful lunge at Truth, and now has its teeth gripped firmly onto her arm. She screams and tries to shake it off, but it remains latched onto her. 

“Somebody help me!” 

Eyma stabs her shortsword into one of the Human undead near her. “Sorry, busy,” she says as she pulls it back out of its chest, the blade now covered in dirty blood. 

Truth tries to push the grappling zombie away, but its strength is too much for her. Her arm is bound, unable to raise to cast a spell. 

“Eww! Atheinah, do something!” 

“On it!” Atheinah leaps back a couple of feet, before tapping her fingers to her necklace. “Try this on for size—Poison Spray!” 

As the splatter of green, revolting gunk materializing from Atheinah’s fingers drenches the undead, it only groans. In fact, it doesn’t seem to have taken any damage at all. 

“Huh? Why not?” 

Aphollo, being a Paladin pretty well-versed in the line between living and dead, has an answer for that one. “Zombies are immune to poison damage.” He seems befuddled at his own answer, though. “But, uh, _why_? Does every race have weaknesses and resistances? Like _Pokémon_?” 

“If you knew they were immune, why didn’t you tell me before I cast the spell? Now my turn is up! Ugh!” 

“Maybe you should’ve asked,” Aphollo says, sighing, and makes a move for the Halfling on Truth’s arm. He jogs up to it and swings his longsword; the hit connects at the neck. A bit too well, perhaps, for the undead’s head comes rolling clean off as Aphollo follows through his swing.

Atheinah shrieks. “Eww! Eww, eww, eww! That’s _awful_!” 

One of the Human zombies takes another lash at Eyma, striking her in the torso. The other bats at Klavi’or, but he easily jumps out of the way. 

“Ugh,” Eyma groans. “These guys are tougher than they seem, aren’t they?” She glares at Klavi’or. “Hey, I’ve been hit a few times. How about healing me, huh?” 

“Eh? What was that, Fräulein Guard?” Klavi’or cups a hand to his ear. “I can’t quite hear you.” 

“I’ll _kill_ you—!” 

“Actually,” Klavi’or says, a sly smile crawling up onto his face, “you might want to cover your ears.” 

Eyma’s lips contort. “What?” 

He repositions his stance into one more comfortable, slips his dagger away, and then starts to string together another tune on his lyre. “Get ready to make some noise, Fräulein Guard. Let’s _rock_!”

“No, wait—what’reyoudoingfop _stop_ —” 

He strums a familiar lightning-like rift on his lyre—so loud and deafening, the noise seems to become _force_ itself. The sound makes the zombies reel, and it’s too much for them to handle—they’re each blown back by the force of the music.

So, too, is Eyma. She _also_ gets to make a saving throw.

Klavi’or stops his strumming mid-note. “…Excuse me?” 

“What?! Are you kidding me?” 

… 

“…Eleven.” 

Oh, dear. Eyma also takes that nice twelve points of damage straight to the face. 

“ _What_?!” she shrieks. “Oh my god, fop! You’ve _killed_ me!”  

Klavi’or blinks, dumbly. He reaches a hand up to his face and threads his fingers through his bangs, avoiding eye contact with everyone present. “You can hit your teammates? Ach, I didn’t know. I… don’t suppose I could redo that?” 

Nope, no do-overs. That’s what happens when you cast Thunderwave. It’s a cube, and it hits everything _inside_ that cube… including your allies. 

Speaking of which, Eyma finally collapses under her own weight, having been thoroughly bested by a wicked amount of thunder damage. 

Incidentally, as it’s now Eyma’s turn, she gets to make a death saving throw. 

… 

And oh, she fails. How unfortunate. Two more of those, or another brutal hit, and Eyma’s dead for good. 

Somewhere in a parallel universe, there’s a prosecutor shielding his face from the pelting fury of thousands upon thousands of Snackoos. 

“Good job—you just murdered one of our party members,” Aphollo says under his breath. 

“N-nein, I didn’t mean to!”  

“Well, can you heal her?” 

“It’s not my turn anymore. And… ach.” Klavi’or’s fingers are still incredibly fascinated by the texture of his hair. “I’m out of spell slots, so I can’t cast Healing Word again. Unfortunately.”

_Ka-tonk_ _!_  

“…Ouch.” 

“Oh my gosh,” Truth says, a hand to her cheek. “It wasn’t even the zombies who dealt the final blow! Klavi’or—you need to learn to control your magic!” She wags a scolding finger at him. “That’s one of the basic _rules_ of magic!” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” 

“Okay, nobody panic,” Aphollo says. “We’re out of combat now, right? That Thunderwave killed the other two? I’ll—” 

Just as Aphollo makes a move for Eyma, though, the Halfling zombie at his feet begins to stir. It churns out a long, haunting sound, before it pulls itself _back_ up to its feet. It moves in a stilted, jolting manner, as if being tugged on by puppet strings. It looks especially creepy, considering somebody hacked off its head. 

“Ack—!” Aphollo manages to step out of the way of an incoming blow. “It’s still alive?!” 

“Die already, creep!” Truth points her wand at it. “ _Fire Bolt_!”  

This time, the spell hits, scorching what remains of the Halfling’s skin and bone. It makes another disgusting noise as it topples to the ground. 

The party (minus the dead one) stare at the body, but it doesn’t move. Neither does the body of the Dwarf, nor the two Humans. They remain cold and limp, as dead as they were before they were reanimated. 

Aphollo nudges the Halfling corpse with his shoe, but it still doesn’t twitch. “Okay. So _now_ we’re out of combat?”  

Combat is suspended, yes. 

“ _Finally_ ,” he says, and immediately gallops over to Eyma. He gently pushes Klavi’or out of the way before kneeling down at her side. “No more death saving throws—you’re going to be all right.” 

Klavi’or joins him on his knees, guilt sewn deep into the creases on his face. “Are you going to try to stabilize her?” he asks. “Ach, can I help? I got—this was my fault, and—” 

“No need,” Aphollo says, hushing him up. He takes Eyma’s head into his lap and slips off his left gauntlet, revealing his bare hand. “I think this should do the trick.” 

He presses two fingers up to the exposed skin of Eyma’s neck, and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. His fingers glow with a faint, radiant aura—similar to the aura shining around Atheinah, but much… brighter. Much more _refined_. Eyma’s blood, too, having seeped through her leather armor, glows that same divine gold. 

Aphollo doesn’t pull away, no; instead, Eyma wakes up, sucks in a deep breath, and immediately shoves him off of her. 

“What the heck was _that_?!” she cries, instantly turning on Klavi’or. Her eyes blaze with vulgar rage. “You could’ve killed me! You _did_ kill me! I was seconds away from turning into a zombie!” 

“…You’re welcome,” Aphollo says. 

“Fräulein, it was a mistake.” Klavi’or pats the air in front of him, as if to calm her down. It doesn’t seem to be working. “I’m sorry. But it’s fine now, isn’t it? Herr Paladin came to save the day.” 

Aphollo picks up his discarded gauntlet and slips it back on over his hand, grumbling all the while. “Let’s hope nobody else gets hurt, because I can’t heal for any more points.” 

Truth and Atheinah join the others, brushing the dirt off of their armor and clothes. 

“That’s something to worry about later,” Atheinah says. “I think we should probably focus on, uh, that dragon.” 

“Oh, right. I completely forgot about the dragon.” 

Seems like a pretty hard thing to forget about, considering that it was decimating the castle during the whole eighteen seconds you were fighting. 

Atheinah blinks. “Eighteen seconds? It sure felt like a whole lot longer than that….” 

Nope. Each round of combat is technically only six seconds. 

Anyway, the dragon is still very much _there_. The castle sits in shambles underneath it, with only a few of its spires still standing. The dragon roars and flaps its mighty wings, looking like it’s about to spit flame— 

—Before it wisps, like a candle being snuffed, completely out of existence. Its color leaves a smoky stream on the air, but other than that—nothing. Completely gone.

In addition, the remaining zombies scattered around the castle grounds fall limp in the exact same instant.

It suddenly becomes very, very quiet. 

Aphollo rubs at his temples. “ _Huh_?”   

“Yeah, what the heck?!” Truth plants her hands on her hips. “How anticlimatic!” 

“Anticlimatic, my butt,” Eyma says as she staggers to her feet. She almost tumbles over, and Klavi’or moves to help her—but the gleam in Eyma’s eyes warns him to stay far, _far away_. “You guys didn’t almost _die_.”  

“But still! Now what are we supposed to do? There’s nothing left to fight!” 

“What do you mean, ‘what are we supposed to do?’ Are you an idiot?” Eyma looks ready to smack someone. Luckily for Truth, though, it’s most likely going to be Klavi’or. “We have to check to make sure the Royal Family is okay!” 

Aphollo also rises to his feet. “I mean— _you_ do, I guess, but _we_ don’t have to. That’s not in our job description. Maybe we should get out of here, before something else—” 

“Absolutely not!” Eyma says. “It’s the least you guys can do! You almost _killed_ me!” 

“The Bard here almost killed you. I _healed_ you.” 

_Ka-tonk_ _!_  

“…Hey, it’s true!” 

“Shut up,” she says, and turns to face the ruins of the castle. Despite their mumbled complaints, all four of the others follow her into the rubble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who doesn’t love……… combat :^)
> 
> I tried to keep this, uh, painless. If you have any tips on how to make this kind of thing better in the future, or if you like it just fine as it is… it would mean a lot to me if you could let me know!
> 
> Thank you so so so so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

“To think,” Truth murmurs sadly, “this is my first time in a royal palace… and it’s so _tragic_.” 

It’s a very surreal experience, trouncing over the once-great archways and crawling through the remnants of charred art and fine gold furnishings. The ruins of the castle are now only that—ruins, smelling of smoke, flame, and most pungently, of gunpowder. Strange—perhaps that’s just what dragons smell like…?

Unsurprisingly to everyone, it’s Aphollo who first manages to hear any signs of life.

His senses hone in on the sound—there’s movement, maybe footsteps. Voices, multiple. They sound like they’re coming from somewhere ahead of them, through the dilapidated corpse of what was once a dining room. 

He gestures for the rest of the group to follow along behind him. Eventually, the party catches up to the voices—and they’re met with quite the fascinating sight, indeed. They duck behind a fallen pillar in order to get a good look before making their presence known. 

“No, please! Mother, you _must_ believe me! I did not open the portal—! I didn’t! I _can’t_!” 

“…Ray’fah, you know better than to lie. The Hallowed Mother will always know the truth.” 

“Mother—!” 

Standing in what once was a great banquet hall are several people: the King and Queen of Angelite, covered in gray soot, Queen Gha’ran of Cur’ain and her husband, looking as stoic as ever, and several dozen guards in the same uniform as Eyma. One of them is restraining a young girl with long, black hair, who has tears glossing over her emerald eyes. 

“We assure you,” Queen Gha’ran says, turning to the Angelese rulers. “She will be tried efficiently in our Cur’ainese courts. Or, if you would prefer—in the name of the alliance….” She tips her head down, and her headgear casts a shadow over her face. “…She can be put to death at once.” 

The girl in the arms of the guard yelps. “M-Mother! Surely you cannot be serious…!” 

Upon closer inspection of the Angelese rulers, one can truly see how… _devastated_ they appear to be. The Queen is rubbing circles into the King’s broad back—and the King himself has his eyes downcast. They look like they’re about to cry, if they haven’t already. 

“…She deserves a fair trial,” the King says, voice deep with sorrow. “But I’m not sure if either of our courts can offer that to her.” 

“A fair trial?” The Cur’ainese Queen laughs. “We respect the laws of your people, Noble King, but that is unnecessary. The evidence is overwhelming. Princess Ray’fah and we are the only Sorcerers in the land capable of unleashing such devastating magic. It could have only been she.” 

Her husband takes a step forward. He remains behind his wife, though—never once does he usurp her stance. “I don’t want to believe it, either,” he says, casting a regretful glance in the direction of his daughter. “…But my wife speaks the truth. Ray’fah was unaccounted for during the time leading up to the wedding—the handmaids say they lost track of her. And I was by my wife’s side the whole day.” He shakes his head and releases a long sigh. “But it’s possible that some other magic-user was responsible for the deed.” 

“Do not be foolish, Ingah,” Queen Gha’ran says. He instantly clamps his mouth shut. “What reason would there be for that? Ray’fah did not wish to be wed, nor did she believe in the alliance between our two countries—thus, she opened the portal to Dragon’s Deep and summoned the creature dwelling there.” She sighs. “We are sorry, Your Royal Highnesses, that our magic could not vanquish the creature sooner. Perhaps, if we had been faster, the Prince—” 

At the mention of the name, the King of Angelite visibly shrinks. The Queen, too, recoils—as if being struck. 

“The Prince?” Truth’s voice is a whisper, only audible to the people in the party. Her hands are balled in her robes. “Is the Prince… dead?” 

Eyma elbows her in the side. “Shush! You don’t want them hearing us, do you?” 

“Weren’t we looking for them, though?” 

“Well, yeah, but—this doesn’t really look like something we should be interrupting.” She furrows her brows. “Much less be caught eavesdropping on….” 

“…Listen, pal,” the King of Angelite says, lifting his head a bit. “Even in circumstances like these… you have to look at things objectively. She deserves better.” 

“We understand,” Queen Gha’ran assures. “However, in the interest of the alliance, we would suggest otherwise. The people of our countries will want a perpetrator punished, you must understand. If word gets out that the criminal responsible was the Princess of Cur’ain herself, well….” She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, void of any real meaning. “We are not sure how that will stir sentiment on either side of the border.” 

The King of Angelite avoids her gaze. 

“However. If a verdict, and a punishment, is reached quickly,” the Queen continues, “we believe it will show how devoted we are to the alliance. Which, we assure you, we very much are.” She inclines her head, regally. “You must understand that it will not be easy, putting our own daughter to death. But, if it must be done in order to preserve the peace between our two countries… then we will do it without hesitation.”  

The Angelese royals exchange looks with one another. They look deeply, deeply divided, and still on the brink of tears. 

Eventually, the King releases a long, weary breath. “If she’s the main suspect,” he says, “then I think it would only be right to leave the way this case is tried up to your jurisdiction.” 

The Cur’ainese Queen smiles. That, too, is hollow at its seams. “Thank you. We assure you, the process will be swift and painless. We will begin immediately.” She directs her attention to the guards—specifically, to the one restraining the Princess. “Take Ray’fah outside and deposit her with our own Royal Guard. Tell them that she is to be immediately thrown into the royal dungeon, and that documents for execution should be brought to our husband’s chambers immediately.” 

Ray’fah struggles in the guard’s hold. Tears are now streaming down her cheeks, hot and raw. “Mother, please! Father! You must believe me! I would never do such a horrible thing!” 

The guard, however, only hoists her up and starts to drag her away. Ray’fah kicks and cries, but the guard doesn’t falter. Her parents, nor the Angelese royals, have the courage to look her in the eye. 

“Mother! Father! Please! I’m not the culprit…! Please don’t do this—!” 

“ _Objection_!” 

Every member of the party who _isn’t_ Aphollo lurches to grab for him (each shouting their own desperate version of “What the hell are you _doing_?!”), but they’re too late—Aphollo is already leaping out into the middle of the room. He points an accusatory finger at the group of royals. 

Every pair of eyes turns towards him. 

“…Who are _you_?” the Queen of Angelite asks with a perplexed push of her glasses. 

“A concerned citizen,” Aphollo answers. There’s a somewhat snide smile daubed on his face, even despite the guards pointing their spears and lances in his direction. 

“A trespasser,” Queen Gha’ran remarks. “Your guards should apprehend and arrest this man immediately.” 

His smirk falls flat. “W-wait a second!” Aphollo waves his hands in front of him. “We only came to check on you guys—the royal family, that is.” He looks a little bit embarrassed—almost like he didn’t plan this far ahead, and only acted on unfiltered instinct. “But… I can’t let this _go_! You can’t put somebody to death—not without a fair trial! She says she didn’t do it, so you have to investigate the circumstances of the crime!” 

“ _We_?” the Cur’ainese Queen says. 

“…Huh?” 

“You said, ‘ _We_ only came to check on you guys.’ That implies that there are more are you.”

Aphollo’s face pales. “Oh. Uh.” 

Luckily for him, though, his fellow party members don’t seem too keen on remaining in the shadows: Truth jumps out from behind the fallen pillar with a flurry of her cape.

“Pholly’s right!” she says. “You can’t just say she’s guilty! You need to search for the _truth_!” 

Atheinah is quick to join her. “Yeah!” She also points a finger, as if that motion were a weapon onto itself. “I can’t believe you people! Angelite says it’s all about the law and the court… and you’re going to sentence the Princess to death without a fair trial? Sounds hypocritical to me!” 

The royal families stare at the boisterous newcomers with open mouths. 

“…Guards,” the Queen of Angelite finally manages to say, “seize these trespassers at once.” 

“H-hold it, Your Highnesses!” 

Eyma also moves out from her hiding spot, dragging Klavi’or behind her by the curved ear (“Ow, ow, ow—that _hurts_ , Fräulein!”). She swallows a lump in her throat, and then speaks: “What they say is true. They were only trying to make sure that nobody in the Royal Family was hurt. W-well, _I_ was trying to make sure of that—it’s my duty, after all—but… these concerned citizens were just trying to be of service.” 

“Well, yeah—that was the plan originally,” Atheinah says. “But I don’t want to help anyone, king or not, who thinks that they can get away with something so _horrible_!”

Eyma glares at her with all of the fury of a hungry bugbear. “I’m trying to get you out of this, Aasimar. Shut _up_.”

Queen Gha’ran covers her mouth with her hand, as if to stifle a laugh. “Please. If anything, their appearance here only adds to the suspicious nature of this bizarre crime.” She gives them all a quick once-over. “Although they do not appear to be of any major threat. A loud-mouthed Paladin, a demonic witch, a fallen angel, a half-breed Bard, and a belligerent royal guard… none of them possess any power worth noting.” 

“I was only trying to do my duty, Your Majesties,” Eyma repeats. She lets go of Klavi’or’s ear in order to give them a formal salute. 

The Angelese King crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the sky, visible thanks to the destruction.

“…They have a point,” he says to his wife. 

“About the trespassing?” The Queen of Angelite nods her head in agreement. “I suppose they do. These are quite unusual circumstances.” 

“Not just about that. The trial—the law. They’re… absolutely right!” His volume raises as he speaks, and everybody feels compelled to take a few steps away. “What were we _thinking_?! We can’t allow this! We have to give Princess Ray’fah a proper trial, no matter how damning the evidence may be…! That’s what we believe in, isn’t it?” 

The room goes quiet for a few moments. 

“…Wow,” Aphollo says under his breath. “I can’t believe that actually worked.” 

The Cur’ainese Queen clears her throat. “Your Highness, please. Remember what we said about the logistics of a swift verdict…?” 

“I don’t care about logistics, pal! I care about justice!” The King turns to face Ray’fah, who is still crying in the arms of the guard. She flinches back in shock. “Princess Ray’fah says she didn’t do it, so that’s reason enough to launch an investigation, isn’t it?” 

“Investigation…?” Queen Gha’ran repeats the word, as if foreign. “Surely you cannot be serious.” 

The King nods his head with newfound confidence. Despite being a king, he doesn’t seem to have all that much “confidence” to begin with. “I’m super serious, pal! The Royal Guard will start researching the incident immediately. With any luck, the issue should be resolved in….” The King thinks about it for a second or two. “Hmm. Five months, give or take?” 

“Five months?! Ludicrous!”  

“…Queen Gha’ran is right,” Atheinah says, mostly to her friends. “Whoever heard of a system where cases last that long? God, could you imagine?” 

“We will not _stand_ for this,” the Queen says with bared teeth. “We respect your wish to launch an investigation and hold a trial, but five months is a preposterous amount of time. Trials in Cur’ain last no longer than a day, due to our swift and effective manner of judicial flow.” 

“One day? Now _that’s_ ridiculous!” says the King. “How does that guarantee a fair trial?” 

“We have our methods of establishing the circumstances of—” 

“Uh. Excuse me?” 

All of the royal gazes once again fall on Aphollo. It’s a little bit suffocating, all of those judgmental and powerful looks. 

He ruffles his hair, as if nervous. “U-umm, how about… three days? Where I come from, the maximum amount of time a trial or investigation is allowed to go on for is three days, and it’s pretty effective.” His smile is a little dopey, too. “If you’re worried about manpower, I think all of us would be willing to help out.” 

“…Are you signing us up to defend a client in a fictional, fantasy world, Herr Forehead?” Klavi’or asks with an insufferable little smirk. “This is supposed to be play, not work, you know.” 

“Well, if she’s innocent, isn’t it our responsibility?”  

“Perhaps for you. I’m not usually the one doing the defending.” He chuckles. “But truth and justice are important, I must agree. Nobody deserves death—especially not before a fair trial.” 

“Such _insolence_!”  

The Cur’ainese Queen flashes such an unbridled, terrifying sneer, that everybody—including the Angelese royal family—flinches away. 

“How _dare_ you speak to us in such a manner,” she says, each word dabbed in lethal toxin. “We should have _you_ put to death as well, for daring to defend the life of the accused and for uttering blasphemy against the crown!” 

“P-put to _death_?” Aphollo squeaks. 

“H-hey, pal,” the King of Angelite says. “That’s going a little overboard, don’tcha think…?” 

“Three days? Three days is _nothing_. You fools have no idea what you are talking about. Perhaps we should show you how futile your argument really is.” She looks over at the Angelese royal family. “We accept the three day investigation.” 

The King blinks at her. “Huh? But, uh, we weren’t the ones who suggested that….” 

Queen Gha’ran returns her attention to the group of heroes, and holds her arm out to address them. “You will also be part of the investigation, since you most graciously offered your services. We will start immediately.” 

“ _Huh_?” The King still seems lost. “Wait, what’s going on?” 

“The Princess of Cur’ain, Ray’fah Padmei Cur’ain, is under suspicion of murdering the Prince of Angelite,” Queen Gha’ran explains, entirely ignoring the Angelese royals. “As well as murdering and endangering countless other innocent civilians. We suspect as much because of the appearance of the creature who ravaged the castle earlier—a shadow dragon. 

“Shadow dragons are solitary creatures, who only dwell in the darkest and most isolated of planes. They’re incredibly rare. However, the Angelese Royal Guard found evidence of a dimensional portal, located in the underground dungeon of this palace.” The Queen scoffs as she glances over at her daughter. “Before closed, the portal was revealed to lead to Dragon’s Deep—an expansive cavern a day and a half’s journey east, in Cur’ain. Although a dragon has not been spotted at Dragon’s Deep for more than a hundred years, it is suspected that the portal was opened in order to summon the shadow dragon and wreak havoc on the castle.”

“Yeah, we saw the dragon,” Aphollo says. “It just kind of… disappeared, though. What happened to it?” 

The Queen laughs. “We banished it back to where it came from, of course. Our magic is unparalleled by anyone in the land—except for maybe by our daughter.” 

She continues on. “The portal’s magical signature suggests that it had only been open for a handful of hours before the shadow dragon appeared. We were preparing for the ceremony all day; our husband, as well as the Angelese royals, can attest to that. However, Princess Ray’fah was unaccounted for during several hours this afternoon; at the time, we only thought it was premarital nerves. However, Ray’fah is the only known one in the land—other than myself, of course—who has the magical capability of summoning such a portal. Thus, she is the prime suspect.” 

“What about those undead we fought outside?” Truth asks, less to the Queen and more to the party.

The Queen responds anyway, though. “Another indicator of Ray’fah’s guilt. Ray’fah is also incredibly gifted with Necromantic magic, so it’s likely she used her power to cause even more of a… hoopla.” 

“That is not _true_!” Ray’fah cries. “My magic is not strong enough for either feat! Mother, you know this…!” 

“She lies,” the Queen says. “Her magic is more than powerful enough.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “However, it is possible that there might be more to this incident than what meets the eye.” 

Aphollo tilts his head. “What do you mean?” 

“The portal’s magical signature was… odd. It was _unstable_ , one might say. Because of that, it’s difficult to determine whether or not it actually _led_ to Dragon’s Deep—at least, at the time the shadow dragon came through the portal.” 

Aphollo doesn’t really look like he’s following. 

“Don’t worry. This is where you come in.” She smirks at him. “In order to determine whether or not the portal actually led to Dragon’s Deep or to another place, it’s only logical to investigate the Deep itself.” 

“…I don’t like where this is going.” 

“That will be your quest,” the Queen says. Her eyes blaze. “You are to journey to Dragon’s Deep and search for evidence of the portal, and of the shadow dragon. If there is no evidence of either, then it is possible that it was summoned in some other fashion—perhaps, in a fashion Ray’fah is not connected to.” 

“Wait,” Aphollo says. “Wait, wait. Hold it. How will that prove her innocence?” He frowns. “I don’t know enough about Arcana to look for evidence of a portal, much less be able to connect that portal to Ray’fah’s magic. Besides, if there _is_ a dragon there… uh, won’t we—you know….” 

“If you are not back in three days’ time,” the Queen says, “then it can only be assumed that you were slain by the dragon of the Deep, and Ray’fah’s guilt is absolute.” 

“Th-that doesn’t make any sense at all!” 

“However, if you return with evidence that suggests that there is some foul play… then the investigation has no choice but to continue until the entire truth is revealed.” She offers a friendlier smile, though it still seems just a touch malicious. “…How does that sound for a deal?” 

Aphollo slouches. “It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice.” 

“ _Deal_!” Atheinah grins from ear-to-ear and crosses her arms over her chest. “Watch and learn, lady! We’ll march over to Dragon’s Deep and prove you wrong!” She beams at her compatriots. “C’mon, guys! We leave tonight!” 

“I’d rather not,” Klavi’or says with a flip of his bangs. “It’s already quite late, ja? I need to rest and recover my spell slots.” 

“Indeed,” the Queen says. “The investigation will officially begin tomorrow. A day and a half to reach the Deep, a day and a half to return—you should arrive back here in the nick of time.” 

“Seems like we’re cutting it kind of close,” Aphollo says. 

The Angelese King agrees. “Yeah, uh. We’re the royals here—shouldn’t you be making this deal with us?” 

“Hah.” The Queen lifts her head, and then nods to the guards. “Take Ray’fah to the local prison. Make her comfortable for the next three days.” 

Despite not being _her_ guards, they’re quick to nod their heads and hurry on their way.

Before being taken away, Ray’fah looks over at the group of heroes with wide, sparkling eyes. She looks like she wants to say something to them, but she doesn’t have the time, for she’s hastily dragged out of the room.

“You are free to cross the border and spend the night in Cur’ain,” the Queen says. “Free of charge. Just make sure to return to the border by sundown, in three days’ time.” 

She grins. There’s something behind that grin—something that you don’t need a high insight roll to notice. It’s faint, but definitely there: like a scar on her fair skin.

“…Hopefully, I’ll see you then.”

* * *

 Mr. Wright paused for a second or two, and then closed his DM’s screen with a soft little _smack_. “That’s a good stopping place for tonight, I think.” 

It took a few moments of rapid blinking on Apollo’s part to remember where, exactly, he was. The Wright Anything Agency, that’s right… sitting on the floor, too. God, his back hurt. Mr. Wright had the right idea of sitting in a chair….

Returning to the real world felt like whiplash, and he had to rub at his eyes. “Oh man. I have… a headache.” 

“We’re leaving it there?!” Athena cried, slamming her hands on the carpeted floor. Her loudness made Apollo’s eye twitch. “What kind of ending is that? Nothing got resolved! We didn’t even get to fight a dragon!” 

“Of course not,” Mr. Wright said. He began slipping all of his papers away, back into his folder. “If you fought a dragon at level one, you’d all die in a second.” He offered her a smile. “Good news, though: you all leveled up.” 

Out of morbid curiosity, Apollo glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh my god, it’s _eleven_?!” He immediately leapt to his feet. “Wait, don’t—don’t you all have work tomorrow?!” He worked with three out of the five of them, and he _definitely_ knew that they didn’t have weekends free. 

“I have Saturdays off,” Prosecutor Gavin said. He twisted his back, and the crack of his bones popping made Apollo shudder. “Thank you for your concern, though, Herr Forehead.” 

Of _course_ he had Saturdays off. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Ema said with a huff. “I have to wake up early for a trial tomorrow!” She reached into her bag of Snackoos and then popped one into her mouth, chewing angrily. Apollo had to wonder how she still had any of those left. “The yellow one has a point, though. We didn’t really… uh, finish. Were we supposed to?” 

“These campaigns tend to last a long time,” Mr. Wright answered. “I made this one pretty short, though, so it can be completed in a couple of sessions.” 

“Couple of _sessions_?” Apollo practically wilted. “I don’t want to play _again_!”  

Mr. Wright slid him a smug, knowing smile. “Really, Apollo? It sounded like you were getting pretty into it. I mean, I had an encounter planned with the Queen, but… you went ahead and decided to kickstart it yourself. I was surprised.” 

He blushed. 

“Well, that was an experience,” Prosecutor Gavin said as he pushed himself off of the floor. His clothes were wrinkled from having been seated for so long. Huh, Apollo thought—he never seen him so… well, _normal_ -looking. Gavin always seemed so well put-together. He supposed that six straight hours of _Dungeons and Dragons_ could humble a man. “Thank you for the opportunity to play, but I believe I should be heading off.” 

There was something in the way he held himself—in the way that he played with his bangs and focused on random shapes in the room—that made Apollo narrow his eyes. God, there was that… _feeling_ , again. He had felt it act up a few times during the session, but he hadn’t really paid it any heed (he didn’t exactly have the time). Gavin seemed… well, if Apollo had to guess, he seemed _uncomfortable_. Out of his element, maybe. 

That was to be expected, though. He doubted Gavin had much prior experience with _Dungeons and Dragons_.

“Does anybody need a ride home?” Gavin offered. 

“On your _motorcycle_?” Ema asked, skeptically.

“Ja, baby.” 

“I’d rather stick pins in my eyes, thanks. I’ll walk home.” 

“I can take people home, too!” Athena said. Yes, because out of every member of the Wright Anything Agency, the _newbie_ was the only one with an actual driver’s license. 

Ema pondered her offer for a second or two, before snorting out a laugh. “No _thanks_.” 

At Athena’s questioning look, Apollo responded, “I rode my bike here. Thanks for the offer, though.” 

“That was so much fun, Daddy!” As soon as Mr. Wright finished slipping his things away, Trucy threw herself into his arms. She almost knocked him completely off-balance. “It was so cool! I felt like I was actually there, casting spells! Thank you for all of your hard work!” 

Mr. Wright grinned. “Haha, it was no trouble at all! It was fun for me, too—it’s been such a long time since I last played.” He looked over at the rest of the group. “I hope all of you enjoyed yourselves, too.” 

“Of course! It was a blast!” said Athena, shooting a peace sign. 

“I have to admit, it wasn’t what I was expecting,” said Ema. She adjusted her glasses on the top of her head. “It was fun, though. Except for the part where I, you know, _died_. Thanks for the invite, Mr. Wright.” 

“Hey, _I_ invited you!” 

“Ja,” Gavin agreed with a nod of his head. “It was an experience.” 

_Experience_. That was his second time using that word. Apollo felt his eyebrow tic: if he didn’t have fun, he didn’t have to be so obvious about it. That was just rude. 

“What about you, Apollo?” 

“H-huh?” He flinched. “Oh, uh. Yeah, well. It was… you know.” 

…On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t have been so critical of Prosecutor Gavin. 

Mr. Wright chortled. “I know, I know. It’s a little weird. But I know you’ll get the hang of it eventually.” 

The way he was talking made it sound like they were definitely going to play again.

Shit.                                                                                     

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you guys for any longer,” Mr. Wright said with a too-sly wink. “Thanks. Let’s play again sometime.” 

As Apollo mounted his bike and rode off into the night, he couldn’t help but hope that wouldn’t be the case. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toldja there’d be SOJ spoilers. 
> 
> Phoenix is either psychic, or he did a fair amount of research on Khura’in, eh? Or maybe this is a “SOJ is actually just a D&D campaign” AU? Haha, nah—he’s just psychic, that’s all. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with spirit mediums! Also, Phoenix is real good at doing impressions. Please imagine Phoenix doing all of these silly voices, because that is essentially what’s going on.
> 
> Speaking of Phoenix, who’s excited for Turnabout Musical today? I’m real pumped! So many years in the making… it just goes to show how awesome this fandom really is!
> 
> Thank you for reading! It means the world to me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping:  
> 4ish) It wouldn't be a klapollo fic without some poorly-translated German, would it? Sorry for the mistakes -- blame Google, not me!

“I mean, I know I joked about it the other day, but….” Athena hung her head and breathed a long, defeated sigh. “…I didn’t actually _want_ somebody to die.” 

“Somebody always turns up dead,” Apollo said. That was supposed to be comforting, but… it didn’t really come out that way.  

Athena had battled fearsomely against Prosecutor Blackquill during the Crawlnober trial that day, as she had been for the past couple of days. Everything was going swimmingly, up until Blackquill revealed an interesting piece of evidence: that Athena was right, Crawlnober _couldn’t_ have robbed the bar. Not when he was murdering a Mr. Dritzz Do’Urben with a dagger (covered in his prints, mind you) in a bank on the other side of town. 

So, while proven innocent for robbery charges, Crawlnober was taken in again—this time, under suspicion of murder. Since it was technically a different case, the three-day trial limit didn’t apply. 

“It feels like I’ve been working on this case _forever_ ,” Athena whined as she draped herself over the couch of the Defendant’s Lobby. She was taking up a whole lot of space—Apollo barely had room to sit. 

“You had a couple of days to investigate, and the trial itself took a while, too. So yeah, it _has_ been forever.” Apollo glanced at her, worried. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Athena must have been too tired to think of a clever retort, for she only groaned at him. 

Apollo wondered if he was being a good mentor. He had been by Athena’s side during the trial, offering his opinion on the case and even nudging her in the right direction a couple of times. But, seeing Athena so exhausted, so _defeated_ , made his chest constrict in guilt.

He thought about reaching out to give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder or knee, but figured that would be weird. 

“…Uh, do you really want to head back to the office?” he asked, feeling his anxiety creep into his voice. “After that shitshow, I think you deserve a break from work.” 

The curse made Athena chuckle, and she sat up—just enough so she could make eye-contact with him. “Haha, maybe. I just… _ugh_. Crawlnober’s definitely hiding something from me, but I don’t know what!” She nibbled at her lip—judging by the torn skin there, she had been doing that frequently. “He’s not lying, he’s just… not telling me something. Doesn’t he want to be acquitted…? I don’t understand—!” 

“Hey,” Apollo said, gently cutting her off. “Don’t overthink it, okay? If you stress out too much about it, you’re going to hit a wall.” He smiled at her; he hoped it looked supportive, and not… strained. “Go home and rest. Take a walk, maybe. Tomorrow, you can look over the case with a fresh pair of eyes.” 

“Are you giving me the day off, boss?”

“I don’t really have the authority to do that, but I’m sure Mr. Wright wouldn’t mind.” 

She beamed at him with that ever-so-nuclear smile of hers. “I’ll take your word for it! You’re right—rest is good for the growing mind!” 

Apollo was about to respond with, “You’re not growing anymore,” but remembered that she was, in fact, nineteen. He silently cursed her for it, too. 

“Do you want a ride home?” Athena asked, not picking up on his sudden drop in mood. “We can grab a bite to eat, too! My treat!” 

“No thanks,” Apollo said. He noticed how Athena’s face fell, but he did his best to ignore it. “I have some… errands I need to run.” 

Athena stared at him. Her hand went to Widget around her neck, her fingers subconsciously fidgeting with it. Maybe Apollo had some discord in his voice…? He could guess as to why: he didn’t really… _want_ to hang out with Athena. 

He liked her, sure, but… he had just spent the last week glued to her side. And being around somebody for that long—especially somebody as _cheery_ as Athena—kind of… well, drained him. All he wanted to do was go home and take a nice, long nap. 

Plus, he wanted to keep his relationship with Athena strictly professional. Bringing _dinner_ into the mix felt like it would… complicate things. He didn’t know why he felt that way—after all, getting dinner with Trucy or Mr. Wright wasn’t weird. Maybe it was because his relationship with Athena was strange and stony to begin with (they hadn’t had the _best_ first few months of friendship, to say the least), and he couldn’t gauge her character well enough to know exactly _what_ she was thinking. Feeling, sure—Widget was a key indicator for that. The mind, though, was a completely different beast from the heart.

“ _He’s grumpy!_ ” Widget chirped, and Apollo instantly reeled back into reality.  

“I was only offering,” Athena said. When she smiled at him, Widget didn’t turn green. “I’m going to head off, then. See you tomorrow.” She stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and gave him a tiny wave. “Be careful on your way home, Apollo.” And then, with a flip of her wavy, auburn hair, she disappeared from the lobby. 

For some reason or another, Apollo felt a little guilty. 

He had a gift for noticing when people were lying, but he was exceptionally awful at figuring out what people were _thinking_ , especially when it came to matters that didn’t involve murder in some capacity. Maybe getting dinner with Athena wouldn’t be weird, and he was reading too much into it….

Before he left the courthouse, he decided to use the bathroom. He felt the need to wash his hands. 

Athena was spunky, young, chipper. She was the type of girl people instantly felt drawn to. And yeah, Apollo considered her a friend. 

…Kind of. 

They were close coworkers. That counted, right? He enjoyed her company, even if she was exhausting. The thought of socializing with her outside of work, though—in as casual a setting as a _restaurant_ —it was a little… he felt… he wasn’t sure _how_ to feel— 

“We meet again, Herr Forehead! It seems that someone has tied our strings of fate together.” 

Apollo was only a few paces away from the bathroom when that familiar, Eurorock-accented voice chiming from behind him made him jump. As Apollo turned around, his face was already starting to distort into an unpleasant pout. 

“Prosecutor Gavin,” he greeted, less-than-thrilled. “What a… coincidence.” 

Not really, he thought. To be honest, it was surprising that they didn’t pass one another more often at the courthouse—they both worked there, after all. 

Prosecutor Gavin’s grin was bright, and… well, if Apollo was being entirely honest, kind of _dopey_. Like he was just _that_ stupidly happy to see him.

“What’re you up to this fine afternoon, _meine liebe_?” Gavin asked. As soon as he caught up to Apollo, his stance relaxed, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. Judging by the frizz of his hair and bags under his eyes, Apollo guessed that it had been a long day. Maybe he had just finished up with a trial of his own…? Why else would he be at the courthouse? 

“Well,” Apollo said, “I was planning on peeing.” 

His frankness took Gavin off-guard. “E-excuse me?” 

He gestured in the direction of the restroom, a few yards away. “I was going to pee,” he explained, “and then I was going to head back to the office. Athena and I just got done with a trial.” 

“Ah, Fräulein Cykes?” Gavin took a quick look behind Apollo, then behind himself. “Hmm? Is she not with you?” 

Apollo didn’t know what part of _having to piss_ Gavin didn’t understand. 

“She already headed home,” he said. “Why? Did you want to talk to her?” 

“Nein, nein,” Gavin said easily. “I was only wondering. The two of you—you seem rather… chummy. I was surprised to see you without her.” 

Oh god, not this again. 

“Jealous?” Apollo asked, because—jeez, he was sick of hearing about this! Gavin always seemed to want to bring it up, too. What was his problem…? 

Prosecutor Gavin blinked and, as if on reflex, started to pull at his bangs.  

“You’ve caught me, Herr Forehead,” he whined, his tone a sing-song. “It does make me jealous. It reminds me that we don’t see each other often enough—and that, in my absence, I’ve been replaced.” 

“We were never that close to begin with,” Apollo muttered. “Besides, she’s my coworker. She didn’t replace _you_.” If anything, he felt like he wasn’t seeing Trucy as often as he would’ve liked. But that was an issue for another day. 

“But it also reminds me,” Gavin continued, shooting Apollo a sleazy grin, “that if I don’t start ramping it up, I might miss my chance at you.” 

Usually, Gavin’s flirtatious comments were double-entendres that had a more reasonable, underlying meaning to them. Unwrapping them and figuring out what he actually meant under all of those pretty words was a puzzle onto itself.

But Christ, Apollo had no idea how to interpret _that_ one. 

“…Well,” Apollo said as he bit his bottom lip, “on the off-chance that there’s some truth to what you’re going on about: you have my number.” 

“Nein, I actually don’t.” Gavin leaned forward, hands on his hips. “Care to share?” 

Ugh. That backfired. 

“Don’t you have anybody else you could be hitting on?” he tried again. “I’m sure you have some fans who would gladly give you the response you want to hear.” 

“What response do you think I want to hear, Herr Forehead?” 

“I don’t know—glowing praise?” 

“Praise is boring when you’re an international music and courtroom sensation.” 

“So you’re a masochist, then.” 

“Do you want me to be? I never thought you the type!” 

“That’s not an answer, Gavin.” 

“Gavin, Gavin, Gavin. Herr Forehead, please—there’s no need to be so formal.” With every word, Gavin leaned closer and closer. Apollo could smell his coconut-scented breath. “We’re friends, ja? You can call me Klavier.” 

Apollo took a step back. “I’ll start calling you ‘Klavier’ when you stop calling me ‘Forehead’.”

“Ach, do you not like your pet name? I think it’s cute.” 

He didn’t think the forehead was a particularly _cute_ thing.  

“Yours is cute.” 

“You’re really on top of your game today, aren’t you?” Apollo said, breathing out a drained sigh. “Well, what is it? There has to be something you _want_ , right? You’re not being this obnoxious for the kicks.” 

Gavin looked taken aback. “Not everything I do has an ulterior motive,” he objected. His radiant smile even dulled into a tight little frown—now, didn’t that make Apollo feel _bad_. 

“Out with it.” 

“I only wanted to chat with you, I swear.” And yet he kept talking. “But, as we’re here… I was wondering if Herr Wright was planning on continuing the campaign anytime soon.” 

Apollo blinked. 

“…Are you serious? _That’s_ what this is about?” Damn, he felt like he had just been _punched_. He never would’ve guessed….

“I’m only curious,” Gavin said. “I don’t want to leave Herr Bard stranded. And I do want to play again—I had fun last time, ja?” 

At the time, Gavin didn’t appear to be having very much fun at all. Was there an ulterior motive for him wanting to play, too…? 

Apollo rubbed the skin beneath his bangle and gave Gavin a blazing, bruised-brow look. His bracelet hadn’t reacted, though… so there wasn’t anything overtly incorrect about what he had said. 

“You really want to play again?” he prompted. 

“Ja, of course.” 

…Nope, nothing. 

Apollo’s suspicion didn’t fade. “Well, I think the plan was to have another session on Friday.” 

“Friday?” Gavin hummed. “I can do Friday.” 

Still, nothing. 

“Why do you want to play again?” 

“Why? What kind of question is that? I had fun.” 

_Pang_ —there it was, the twitch in his bracelet. Gavin had reached to brush his bangs out of his eyes.  

“…And I like spending time with you,” he added as an afterthought. 

And—and, oh. It was gone. As quickly as the feeling had appeared, it vanished. Apollo wondered if he hallucinated it. 

Gavin must’ve noticed Apollo’s intensity, for he said, “Are you all right, Herr Forehead? Your eyes are bulging out of your head.” 

Apollo ignored the comment. “All the same people are going to be there,” he said, seeing if he could fish the lie from Gavin again. “Trucy, Athena, Ema… Mr. Wright.” 

The only thing he could read was that Gavin’s lips pulled back a little at those final two. It was obvious enough for him to catch with his eyes alone, though. “Ja, ja—I understand. We wouldn’t be a party if we lost anybody.” He shrugged. “Though I could do without the Fräulein Detective’s grouchiness, personally….” 

Something about the way Gavin was whining rubbed Apollo the wrong way.  

“Well, if you don’t like the people, you don’t have to come,” he said, feeling his eyebrow twitch. “I wouldn’t want the great Prosecutor Gavin to waste his time.” 

Gavin’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? What gave you that impression?” He looked up towards the ceiling and mumbled some incoherent words under his breath; recounting the steps of their conversation, Apollo figured. “Ach, that probably came out wrong. But I believe you misunderstand—I very much enjoyed myself last Friday, as I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself this coming one as well.” 

“Misunderstand?” Apollo laughed—snorted, more like. It sounded a lot more scathing than he had meant it to. Gavin looked a little ruffled.  

…But maybe he was right. Apollo was awfully prickly towards Gavin, always waiting for him to slip up and say something rude, or straight-up lie. But, surprisingly, he almost never did. Considering his line of work (and his genetics, Apollo thought—but no, no, that was unfair of him), he was incredibly trustworthy. Nice. Haughty at times, but could you expect anything else from a famous rock star?  

“…Maybe there’s a language barrier,” Apollo said, softer that time. 

His comment picked Gavin’s spirits right back up. “Ja, ja. _Sie haben Recht, meine Liebe_.”  

“Gesundheit.” 

Why, Apollo might have described Gavin’s laughter in that moment as a _giggle_. Like the laughter of a blushing schoolgirl, rather than the German rock ‘n’ roll prosecutor he had grown to respect. 

…Respect, yeah. That was a good word for it.  

“So Friday’s fine with you?” Apollo asked, letting his tense expression relax into a half-smile. “Same time, same stuff.” 

“I wouldn’t dare miss it.” 

Despite Gavin’s light-hearted grin, Apollo got the impression that there was something else he wanted to ask. The way Gavin’s tongue swiped along his bottom lip and the way his eyes darted to and from Apollo’s face were more than enough to tip him off.

He stood in silence, patiently waiting for Gavin to work up the courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say. 

“…So you’re heading home now, ja?” he finally asked. “Long day?” 

_More_ small talk? That was it? He should’ve said his goodbyes while he had the chance….

“I was actually heading to the _bathroom_ ,” Apollo reiterated. “But yeah, then I was going to head back to the office. It’s been a day from Hell.” 

“My poor Herr Forehead,” Gavin crooned. “I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe dinner would help take your mind off of things?” He tossed his bangs with a flourish of his head. That boyband-y line would’ve made Trucy just about have a heart attack. “My treat.” 

Apollo stared at Gavin like he had grown a second head. 

“You’re shitting me.” 

Gavin’s lips trembled at their corners. “Whatever do you mean?” 

There was the dinner thing, _again_. The universe really wanted him to get dinner with someone.

Well, the universe could _piss off_. 

“…Thanks, but I’m going to have to pass,” Apollo said slowly. “It’s been a long day. I kind of want to… relax for a little while. It’s nothing against you, it’s just….” He struggled to find the right words. “I’m tired.” 

He hadn’t been so frank with Athena, he thought. He doubted that Athena knew what the word “relax” meant—and it was _she_ who had tired him out, after all. Apollo had more faith in Gavin: the prosecutor always seemed so cool and collected, even in court.

Gavin hummed a soft note from the back of his throat. Musical, Apollo noted, but the slightest bit off-key. “I see. I should’ve known better—little defense attorneys need their rest to grow up big and strong.” 

“What about you?” Apollo asked. 

“Ach, me?” 

“Yeah. You look—and sound—beat.” Apollo pointed with his index finger (maybe that was rude, but whatever) straight at Gavin’s snarled hair and raccoon eyes. “Shouldn’t you get some rest, too? It’s weird to see you not… perfect. It’s making me uncomfortable.” 

“Perfect?” he mewled. “Indeed—all of the hard work I put into my appearance tends to fall apart after a while in court. But surely you’ve seen me in such a state before, nein?” He—oh god, he _winked_. Seriously. “Facing off against you leaves me feeling rather… spent.” 

Apollo wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be disgusting. If you’re going to be like that, then fine—you seem to have everything under control. But as for me, I’d rather just head home.” 

Gavin nodded in polite understanding. The posture of his shoulders—sturdy, hard—and the motion of his fingers through his hair—trained, delicate—implied that he had been expecting such an answer. That begged the question: was Gavin actually _serious_ , or was he being his normal, glimmerous self?  

Dinner with Klavier Gavin. Trucy—as well as pretty much any girl under the age of eighteen—would’ve killed to be in his position. The thought of it made Apollo’s stomach churn.  

Why, though? Because Gavin was, at the end of the day, a glimmerous fop? Because he was loud, vain? Because looking at his face reminded Apollo so much of his brother, and the guilt from years ago would boil in his gut?

Unfair, he scolded himself. That was unfair to the both of them. 

“Maybe some other time,” Apollo said, words so quiet he almost didn’t catch them himself. Maybe some other time, when he wasn’t so exhausted. Maybe some other time, when he considered himself ready.

Gavin, too, didn’t seem to hear him at first. He ogled vacantly for a second, and then all of his attention went to Apollo’s lips—like he was waiting for him to say it again.

“…Dinner, I mean,” Apollo said, suddenly feeling very, very embarrassed. He covered his mouth with his hand and glanced away, muttering all the while. “I mean, I’m usually pretty busy. I don’t know why you say you’re always free—aren’t you busy, too? Or is your boss just that lenient with you?” 

“Herr Forehead,” Gavin said. Apollo could hear his words twinkle. “Don’t think I’m going to forget that offer! Nein—I’m going to pester you every day until you finally follow through with it.” 

“Then I’ll revoke it.” 

“You wouldn’t go back on your word, would you? What kind of defense attorney lies to his client like that?” 

“Th-this isn’t like that at all! Stop twisting my words around!” 

Gavin laughed—again, in a higher pitch than Apollo would’ve expected from him. Maybe he had trained himself to laugh deeply, talk deeply, and sing deeply—all to keep up his persona; Apollo wondered how far the conspiracy ran. What he would give to hear Gavin confirm his theory by laughing that little, bell-like laugh in a quieter space, just the two of them—without nosy prosecutors and defense attorneys sending them critical looks out of the corner of their eyes…. 

…Wait, _what_? “Just the two of them”? _Hold it_! That came out wrong—even in his mind, that _definitely_ wasn’t right! 

“Relax, _meine liebe_. I was only joking.” Gavin tilted his head. “You’ve gone red. It’s a flattering color on you, ja?” 

“Sh-shut up!” 

Nope, nope. This conversation had gone on long enough, and his exhaustion was making him loopy. He needed to get out of there, fast—before Gavin could bring up any other awkward tidbits of small talk.  

Apollo pushed by Gavin, his hands over his mouth and his face in an attempt to hide his spreading blush. “I’m leaving now,” he said, not meeting Gavin’s eyes. “I’ll s-see you on Friday!” 

“Herr Forehead.” The smugness in his voice made Apollo want to deck him. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing, didn’t he? Snide bastard! “What happened to needing to use the bathroom?” 

Apollo shoved his way out of the courthouse without once turning back: he wouldn’t give Gavin the satisfaction. He ended up regretting that decision on the bike ride back to the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love pee jokes.
> 
> This Sunday is Christmas(!!!), so I decided to update a little early this week. Don't worry, the D&D will continue in the next update! For better... or for worse.  
> I hope you all have a lovely Christmas! And, if you don't celebrate Christmas... Happy Holidays, and I hope you have a great rest of D&December! May all your rolls be high.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're jumping RIGHT into the campaign this week. Fasten your seatbelts! Also, you can find the updated, level two character sheets [here on my tumblr](http://gavinner.tumblr.com/post/155064122335/). Check them out, if you're curious!

“I’m under the impression that there _are_ no comfortable beds in the Kingdom of Cur’ain,” Eyma says, rubbing out a kink in her right shoulder. She pops the joint, and the sharp crack sends a shudder through the rest of the drowsy group.

“It _was_ kind of a dinky motel,” Truth agrees. “Motel? What’s the _ye olde_ word for motel, Pholly?” 

“Inn?” Aphollo suggests. “Tavern?”

“Nah, I think I like Ye Olde Sleazy Motel better!” 

Just as Queen Gha’ran had promised, our group of rambunctious adventurers were allowed to cross the border into the mysterious, exotic land of Cur’ain. Surprisingly, thanks to a very high Charisma roll on the behalf of the party Bard (“I roll to… change the lovely lady’s mind, ja?”), the local innkeeper believed their farfetched tale of the Queen offering them bed and breakfast for free. She muttered about it at first, something about “not being able to feed her starving children if wandering adventurers kept expecting free lodging and meals,” but a wink and a promise of a personalized song mummed her quickly enough. 

Once the rest of the party headed up to their separate rooms, though, Aphollo returned to the main lobby and offered the innkeeper a sum of ten gold for her troubles.

After being told that a night at an inn only costs around five silver, Aphollo twiddled his thumbs and said, “Well, she probably needs it more than I do. She has kids to take care of, right?” 

He earned inspiration for that. 

When dawn came, the sky blushed pink, and the pale-yellow sun spilling in through the shutters assured the party a day full of adventure. After enjoying a homemade breakfast of fresh-picked persimmons, broiled yak sausage, and buttermilk pancakes, the party decided it was high time to head in the direction Queen Gha’ran had indicated.

The innkeeper overheard their nervous murmurings and kindly told them that, in order to reach Dragon’s Deep (“Hallowed Mother knows why you’d want to go to that dreadful place!”), they needed to follow the eastern path out of town. She also offered them a bag of soft, jade-colored steamed buns: “So you don’t get hungry on the journey!” 

She slipped Aphollo an extra dozen. 

Now, in the humidity of the Cur’ainese afternoon, the party trudges ever eastward. The rugged “town” on the Cur’ainese-Angelese border where they stayed the night has long since disappeared, and the road has become overgrown with roots, strange fungus, and vibrant moss. As they walk, the angle of the road inclines ever-so-slightly, and the air begins to chill. They appear to be heading upwards, into the mountains looming in the far distance. 

Aphollo leads the group—not because he knows where he’s going, but because everybody else insists that he would be the only one able to survive an ambushed blow (even with their new leveled-up health caps). Truth skips in-step next to him, while Atheinah and Klavi’or walk a bit behind. Aphollo can hear them duking it out in a language he can’t understand: Sylvan, perhaps. German, more likely. Either way, Atheinah’s getting worked up about something, while Klavi’or remains as cool as a gelatinous cube.

Eyma takes up the rear, stalking a few paces behind them with an angry scowl plastered on her face. She’s nibbling on something violently. 

_MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH_. 

“You know,” Aphollo says, glancing behind him, “you’re not very quiet for a rogue.” 

_Ka-tonk!_  

“…Ow.” 

“I can be quiet when I want to be,” she grumbles, eyes scanning the dark wood to either side of them. “But even so, being stealthy and sneaky isn’t my forte. Now, lock-picking… and unraveling mysteries using the power of my tools and my wit— _there’s_ the fun part!” As she speaks, her sour look drains, and a smile threatens to overtake her face. 

“Mysteries?” Aphollo blinks. “I thought you were a guard.” 

“I _am_ a guard. But my toolset makes me a valuable asset to other divisions of the Royal Guard, too! Like the police force!” 

“So, you’re a detective?” 

“ _No_! If anything, my roguish abilities make me more of an investigator! A _forensic_ investigator, mind you!” 

Truth tugs on Aphollo’s chain-mailed arm, as if to direct his attention away from Eyma before he can say anything else stupid.

“Pholly,” she says with a fanged frown. “When do you think we’ll… you know, _get_ there? To Dragon’s Deep, I mean. Is it, like, a stronghold? Or a cave? A mountain, maybe…?” 

Aphollo dwells on her question for a beat or two. “Huh, I didn’t think of that. Do we know what, exactly, Dragon’s Deep is?” 

Nobody thought to ask about that, did they? I mean, it’s a scary, monster-infested dungeon only a few miles outside of town. Somebody probably knew _something_. 

Aphollo’s stance droops. “Uh. Whoops.” 

Atheinah broke her conversation with Klavi’or the instant she heard the word _monster_. “No sweat, guys! It’s more fun this way! We’ll get there when we get there!” She beams from ear to ear, and her complexion glows with heavenly light. “Besides, it’s a day and a half’s journey, right? We’re not even close!” 

“…Yeah,” Aphollo murmurs in agreement. “Stick to the path, and everything will be fine.” 

“We’re _fine_!” Truth parrots. 

The day’s travels unfold uneventfully. While walking, Eyma decides that she wants to forage for food—but she doesn’t find anything of merit besides a bushel of plump, purple berries. She wants to scarf down a handful of them, but a successful nature check from Klavi’or prompts him to bat the fruit straight out of her hands.  

“If you’d have eaten just one of those berries,” the Bard says, “you’d have been dead within an hour. Maybe think twice before shoving something into your mouth, ja?” 

Eyma’s response is too vulgar to attempt repeating.

As the sun dips lower, the air chills and chills, until our heroes can see the ghost of their breath against the orange rays of final sunlight. Not only is the air _cold_ , but the ambience itself is freezing. Something about the land feels… unnatural.

When Aphollo focuses his divine senses to investigate further, he is able to tell that the entire land on which they tread has been magically desecrated, and it _reeks_ of the bone-chattering, gooseflesh scent of _undead_. It makes Aphollo shiver, and he rubs at his cheeks in an effort to warm up his blood. 

“…It’s getting dark,” Eyma comments from the rear. “We should probably find a place to spend the night.” 

“What should we do? We can’t set up camp on the side of the road, can we?” Aphollo asks. 

Atheinah pipes up, “Yeah! What if something attacks us in the middle of the night, like goblins or trolls?! We need a safe place to sleep!” 

“We can search for some place to rest, I guess. But….” Aphollo stops dead in his tracks and huffs a tiny, pouty breath. “It’s dark, and I can’t see. Anybody have a torch?” 

They all have torches. They’re in their explorer’s packs. But besides—isn’t Aphollo the only one without Darkvision?

“Uh?” 

“I think Daddy’s right—everybody else is totally okay in the dark!” Truth’s tail wags, and it lovingly nudges Aphollo in the rear. He yelps. “That’s what you get for choosing a lame Human, Aphollo!” 

“H-hey, fine! How about one of you guys lead the way, then?” 

“There’s no need for that,” Klavi’or speaks up, his voice accompanied by a soft note on his lyre. He has been practicing it the whole time they have been walking, much to Eyma’s chagrin. “Light can brighten the darkest of moods, can’t it, Herr Paladin? Especially those… that dance.” 

As he strums, something begins to twinkle near the humming strings of his lyre. One, two—no, four spherical stars the size of globes blaze into reality, glowing in a silver shimmer. They float up into the air, each one teetering and spinning in rhythm to Klavi’or’s tune. Their light illuminates the road and the trees, as well as the amazed faces of the rest of the party.

“Wow, so pretty!” Truth marvels. Her eyes catch the light from the four sparkling stars. “You _have_ to teach me how to do that!” 

One of the lights flutters, seemingly of its own accord, towards Truth. It dances around her head in a swirl of glitter, and she giggles as she lunges to catch it. 

“You would know better than anybody here that spells take a lot of work to master,” Klavi’or says, still strumming away. “But ja, maybe we can arrange something. Another day.” 

Atheinah, too, gapes at the dancing lights. “That’s so cool!” She touches her fingertips together. “I mean, I can cast Light, too, but I can’t do anything that….” 

“Glimmerous?” Eyma suggests with a snort.

“I was going to go with _cool_ , but sure.” 

One of the lights flitters over to the frowning Aphollo. It twirls and spins and summersaults, showing off for him. With every motion, the light makes a tiny _twinkle_ noise, like the chiming of a miniature bell. 

“…Cute,” Aphollo says. “Can we get a move on, now?” 

In response, the light drifts closer to his face—and then boops him square in the nose. It has no mass behind it, so the touch can’t be felt; it’s just very, very bright, and very, very in his personal space. 

Aphollo swats it away from his face, like smacking an insect. The light emits a high-pitched squeak, and then vanishes completely from existence. 

“Herr Paladin!” Klavi’or cries. When Aphollo turns to glare at him, he sees that Klavi’or’s lips and brow are knotted in distress. “You _killed_ it! And it took such a strong liking to you, too!” 

“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Aphollo scoffs. “It’s just a trick, right? A conjuration? Stop messing around.”

Klavi’or looks hurt, but Aphollo ignores him.  

“We’re wasting time; we have to find a place to rest. C’mon, let’s go.” 

With Klavi’or’s dancing lights as their guide, the group continues onward into the night. The trees, now formless in the dark, groan as the wind snakes through their branches. The lights cast bizarre shadows, creating creatures made of trickery and paranoia in the crooks of the wood.  

Eventually, something glimmering in the darkness catches the party’s attention. Another desolate trail leads off from the main one, towards the shape of what appears to be an old, decrepit mansion, hidden in its own personal grove. Judging from the silence, as well as its broken windows, rotting walls, and sagging foundation, it doesn’t look like it’s been inhabited for quite a while. 

“ _Sweet_!” Atheinah says, punching a fist into the air. “I call dibs on a room by myself!” 

Truth joins her, squealing in glee. “Ooh, spending the night at a spooky mansion? This is starting to feel like a real adventure!” 

The other three, however, share troubled glances with one another. 

“No friggin’ way,” Eyma says. She firmly crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not spending the night in a haunted mansion. Nope. Bad idea.” 

“It _does_ seem kind of treacherous,” Klavi’or agrees. “But at the same time, a building is a lot safer than simply spending the night in the woods, ja?” 

“Oh, c’mon, guys! Stop being a bunch of babies!” Atheinah takes a couple of bounding steps toward the mansion. One of the dancing lights floats behind her, lighting her way.

The group can see its architecture clearly, now: it’s _very_ old, at least a couple of centuries. It smells musty, and its walls slump with memories. The lawn is decorated with deteriorated stone sculptures of wolves and fairies, and gargoyles lurk atop the pointed roof. 

Atheinah turns back to the lot of them, grinning. “Let’s go in! Please? What’s the worst that could happen, anyway?” 

“Why,” Aphollo mutters, “would you _ever_ say that?” 

Atheinah does, indeed, push the main door open. It swings with a slow, eerie _creak_. 

The dancing lights illuminate the great foyer beyond the doorway. The wood flooring is splitting, and the wallpaper rolling. The mansion once had furniture, judging by the odd shapes in the dust, but everything of worth appears to have been looted. The only fixings are a few rusty torches on the walls and a giant, crystal chandelier hanging above. Multiple doors lead to multiple corridors, and a staircase on the far side of the room spirals into the darkness above. 

Just as Atheinah is about to make a getaway for the stairs, Aphollo clears his throat and sets his hands on his hips. 

“We should probably just rest here for tonight,” he says. “We don’t have time to explore.” 

“Aww, c’mon, Pholly! Where’s your sense of adventure?” Truth whines. She reels back and forth on her feet and wags her tail.

“My sense of adventure died when a dragon murdered the prince.” 

Atheinah groans. “You guys are lame! We haven’t even encountered anything yet, what the heck!” She rolls her eyes into the back of her head. “Can’t we at least take a look around? Maybe there’s something scary that’s gonna come get us! Like a—like a Demogorgon, or a Kraken!” 

“Here’s what I suggest,” Aphollo says, disregarding every one of Atheinah’s comments. “We all sleep here, in the foyer.”  

“What? Gross!” 

“Listen to me.” Aphollo’s glare is enough to shut her up. “We sleep here in the foyer, so we don’t get split up. One of us stays awake and keeps guard, and we rotate—everybody gets an hour or two of watch duty.” 

Eyma raises her hand. “I only have to trance for four hours. I can take the first few hours of watch, and then somebody else can cover for me.” 

Truth, Atheinah, and Klavi’or exchange disinterested looks with one another. 

“Not it,” says Truth. 

“Nope.” Aphollo is quick to cut her off. “We all have to. Here, how about this: Eyma watches for four hours, then Atheinah for one, then Truth, then Klavi’or, and then me. One hour each… eight hours in total. That’s a long rest, right?” 

“B-but.” Atheinah doesn’t seem too pleased—not with her lips pulled back and her foot tapping. “Does it count if we’re not on a… bed?” 

They all have bedrolls. Again, explorer’s pack. Maybe they should check what’s in there—they’re quite handy things.

“That sounds like a fine plan, Herr Paladin,” Klavi’or says with a grin. 

“That’s because _you_ get six hours of uninterrupted sleep,” Truth says. 

Aphollo nods his head. “All right, then it’s settled. We leave at dawn. Here—let’s start setting up camp.” 

Everybody in the party sets their equipment down and rifles through their belongings for their bedrolls. They arrange themselves in a clumpy circle, so that they’re each visible to one another. Eyma sits up straight and pulls out a dagger, already on high alert. 

“All right, everyone. Sleep tight.” She smiles. “Nothing’s going to get past me! So try to get some rest.” 

It’s uncomfortable, Aphollo notes, sleeping in the gear. Armor juts into and sticks to his skin at uncomfortable angles. It’s not very relaxing, but… he’ll manage. Somehow. 

“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Good night.” 

As the dancing lights whiff out, every member of the group—besides the Elf—drifts off into a dreamless sleep. 

 

* * *

 

The sucky thing about having a Passive Perception score so high is that sleeping is nearly impossible. I mean, it’s good for adventures; but being such a light sleeper becomes a problem in domestic situations, as I’m sure you can imagine. 

…Anyway, when Aphollo wakes, it’s not for his shift. No—instead, Aphollo awakens to the gentle whistle of a lullaby-like tune being blown on a woodwind instrument. Or at least, he’s pretty sure it’s a woodwind instrument…? Oh, it doesn’t matter what it is—it’s loud, and it’s annoying.  

And he has a good idea of who it’s coming from. 

He sits up straight and faces the noise. His eyes are bloodshot, and his lips are twisted in a dangerous snarl. 

The person making the racket—the resident Bard, Klavi’or Gavindel—flinches at Aphollo’s sudden movement. His tune cuts short with an off-key note.  

“A-ah, Herr Paladin. You startled me.” Klavi’or offers a smile, but it’s obvious that he’s still in shock. There’s a crease in his brow. “Rough night? It’s not your shift yet, so you can go back to sleep—” 

“Shut up,” Aphollo hisses as a whisper. 

“…Excuse me? That’s—rude.” 

“You’re making noise,” Aphollo clarifies. His thoughts are hazy and jumbled, but he thinks he’s getting his point across. “The music. Shut up. People are trying to sleep.” 

“Oh? Oh.” Klavi’or catches his drift. “Did you not like my pan flute? I thought it might be relaxing. I played a bit for Fräulein Witch, and she went right to sleep.” He shakes his head. “I did not mean to wake you.” 

“I’m fine,” Aphollo says. “Just stop with the… flute.” He pauses and scratches at his sleep-slicked hair. It’s greasy and disgusting. “…Wait, flute? I thought you had a lyre?”

“I have both on my person. Though, to tell you the truth, I’m skilled with many more instruments than just the two.” 

Aphollo’s eye twitches. From exhaustion, perhaps. “I didn’t ask.” 

Klavi’or doesn’t seem keen on shutting up, though. “The lyre is my preference, I must admit. For, when I play the pan flute….” It’s difficult to make out Klavi’or’s form in the dark, especially with Aphollo’s lack of Darkvision, but he can tell from the moonlight seeping in through the shattered windows that Klavi’or brings the instrument to his lips. The whistling little melody that follows is a good indicator, too.  

When the song stops, Klavi’or continues, “…When I play the pan flute, I can’t speak. With the lyre, I can also sing. I feel as if I’m better able to channel my music—and my magic—through lyric and note combined.” 

“Cool,” Aphollo says. “I’m going back to sleep now. You can wake me up in an hour.” 

“Incidentally,” Klavi’or adds, “I am also fond of the piano and the guitar. I quite enjoy the piano, but—as you might imagine, it’s difficult to lug one around.” 

It’s too late. He probably should’ve just shut up and not said anything to begin with.  

Aphollo moans and sinks his face into his hands. 

“Your shift is supposed to start in around fifteen minutes, anyway,” Klavi’or says. Aphollo hears him shifting, scooting, and then—he suddenly appears close to Aphollo’s side. “If it makes you feel any better.” 

At this near a distance, Aphollo can distinguish all of Klavi’or’s facial features: his crooked nose, his stupid grin, the twinkling of his eyes in the starlight.

“Can’t you let me have my fifteen minutes?” 

“But Herr Paladin, I don’t think we’ve had time to properly… _connect_ with one another.” Klavi’or holds his hand to his chest and clutches at his purple robes. “I’m on a riveting adventure with all of these amazing spirits, and I don’t know hardly a thing about them! I want to get to know you better.” 

“ _Why_?”  

“Curiosity?” Klavi’or offers, as if he doesn’t know the answer himself. “Hmm. Inspiration, perhaps? Nothing inspires more music within me than tales of great adventurers.” He leans in close. “And you, indeed, look like a great adventurer.” 

Aphollo pushes his face away, hand firm on Klavi’or’s cheek. “Hah.” 

“It’s true!” Klavi’or says from around Aphollo’s fingers. He’s still grinning that same grin, the one that makes his face look exceptionally smackable. “Won’t you indulge me for fifteen minutes?” 

Aphollo glares at him—a very venomous glare—but Klavi’or is completely unfazed. He sits there for a while, waiting, before he finally slouches in defeat. 

“Whatever. Fine.” 

Klavi’or laughs, giddily. “Thank you, Herr Paladin! You have no idea how long an hour feels when you’re all by yourself.” 

“Sure.” 

“So.” Klavi’or slinks down into a more relaxed position, spreading out his legs and propping his chin up with a knuckle. All of his attention is focused on Aphollo, rather than the mansion—kind of negating the purpose of keeping watch. “What brings you all the way out here?” 

Aphollo stares at him. “We’re trying to prove Ray’fah’s innocence. Did you forget?” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Klavi’or says. “Why are you out _here_? Why do you carry that sword? Why do you wear that bracelet of yours?” 

“H-huh?” Aphollo’s right hand goes to his left wrist. “M-My—?” 

“Your holy symbol, I assume.” 

Aphollo must have forgotten—a Paladin’s magic is channeled through a holy symbol, much like how a Wizard or Warlock’s magic is channeled through an arcane focus. Or a component pouch, but nobody wanted to deal with that, apparently.  

“A Bard channels his magic through his instrument,” Klavi’or says, and flaunts his pan flute. 

And on the character sheet, it says that Aphollo’s holy symbol is a bracelet. So I’m assuming that means the decorative one on his wrist? 

Aphollo flushes and rubs at the bangle. It’s quite a big bracelet, considering that it manages to rest _around_ his massive gauntlets.

“Y-you’re asking for my backstory,” he says. 

“Ja. You have one, don’t you? Look—I filled out the entire ‘bio’ section on my character sheet.” 

“Then share it, if you’re so proud!” 

“Stalling for time as you think of a bluff, eh? Just like in court.” 

“N-no!” 

Klavi’or’s laughter is high and loud—so loud that Aphollo startles and, out of instinct, smacks his hand over Klavi’or’s mouth. The other adventurers stir in their sleep, but don’t wake. 

“Sorry,” Klavi’or whispers, and takes Aphollo’s metal-clad hand into his own. He gently removes it from his face. “I’ll share my story, if you’d like to hear it. Though it’s not very grand.” 

Aphollo rips his hand away and cradles it close to his chest. “W-whatever,” he stutters, suddenly looking everywhere that isn't at Klavi’or’s face. 

Seeming encouraged, Klavi’or clears his throat and begins with renewed poise.  

“I mentioned before that I was a wandering minstrel, ja? Without a home to call his own? That’s still very much true. I used to have a home, once—in a country far away, past the borders of Angelite. I was a musician there, too. Why, I even had a band.” 

“Band?” Aphollo scoffs. “What kind of music did you play? Let me guess: obnoxious Eurorock?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What is this… ‘Euro-rock?’” 

Aphollo mumbles something incomprehensible, and probably inappropriate, under his breath. 

“…Continuing on,” Klavi’or says, brushing some hair out of his eyes, “I would say that we were a popular group. We sang about the things—the _ideals—_ that mattered to us, rather than your standard boy-meets-girl flair… and that made the music all the more popular. Ideals like truth, justice, honor. Lofty morals for a group of kids, I know, but it was our muse all the same. But—eventually, and unfortunately, there was an… incident.”  

Klavi’or’s voice suddenly deepens, and his hold on his hair stiffens. “…An incident with one of the other members. And suddenly, those ideals didn’t ring true anymore. It was if everything we played about—everything we _cared_ about—was a sham. It mattered to me, of course… it still does: but obviously, it didn’t to anybody else. Those ideals—the truth, in particular… to them, the truth was only a fairytale. Something that inspired music, but did not inspire _belief_.” 

“Differences in musical direction, I guess?” 

Klavi’or smiles—a more subdued version of his normal one. “Something like that. Anyway, because of that incident, the band broke up. I didn’t want to be there anymore—not in a town that loved me for someone I wasn’t any longer. So, I left.” His voice cracks occasionally, as if faulty. “I try to sing about truth, and I try to inspire others to seek out their own definition of ‘truth’ through my music. But, as I travel, I wonder if my ideals are, perhaps, not everything they’re cracked up to be. Sometimes, I wonder about the _truth_ of the truth—and whether or not the truth, as a rule to live life by, is more important than friendship or love. I wonder, and I wonder—but, eventually, I always arrive at the same conclusion.” 

“…And that is?” Aphollo asks with a tilt of his head. 

Klavi’or meets his gaze. “That it is. That it, without a shadow of a doubt, _is_.”  

Aphollo thinks about this for several long moments, closing his eyes. He’s searching for something in his mind—it’s evident by the tense muscles in his face.  

“College of Lore,” he finally decides. “Right?” 

“Ach, you got me.” Klavi’or covers his mouth as he chokes out another chuckle. “Well, what did you think? Do I make a convincing actor?” 

“I thought Bards didn’t get to choose a college until level three?” 

“An astute observation. But, I have to start thinking about future decisions now, don’t I? I don’t want to retcon Herr Bard’s backstory.” 

Aphollo huffs out a laugh. “I guess that’s true.” 

They smile together for a few minutes, doing their best to not wake the other members of the party up with their laughter. To their knowledge, all of them remain fast asleep. 

“Well, what about you?” Klavi’or asks after a while. 

“Huh?” 

“I’ve rambled on for long enough. What’s your tragic backstory, Herr Paladin?” 

Aphollo flounders and rubs the back of his neck. “O-oh, right. Umm, I didn’t exactly write anything down….” 

“No problem,” Klavi’or says. “Just speak what comes to mind, ja? That’s how I came up with mine.” 

“U-umm, err….” Aphollo’s face is turning a very vibrant red—too bad Klavi’or’s Darkvision can’t discern color. “Okay. Uh, well… I guess….” He sucks in a deep breath and tries to steady the very audible thumping in his chest. 

“…I was adopted.” 

That catches Klavi’or off-guard. “Oh?” He cranes his body forward as best as he can with his sprawled-out position. “Starting at the very beginning, are we?” 

“I don’t know who my real parents are.” His voice grows louder and louder with each word, but he doesn’t seem to realize it. “I was raised by, uh… no, this sounds _stupid…_.” 

“Please go on,” Klavi’or prompts. The way he _smiles_ at Aphollo as he listens to him speak, with soft eyes and an open heart, makes it seem like Aphollo is waxing lyrical beauty. And not, say, rambling about his fictional character’s backstory in a humid office building on a Friday night. 

Aphollo gulps down a hot breath of air. “Dragonborn.” 

“…Excuse me?” 

“I was raised by a colony of Dragonborn,” Aphollo says, “in Cur’ain, actually. Farther to the east, way past where we’re going—a lot of Dragonborn live there in the mountains.” 

“Really?” Klavi’or blinks, bewildered. “You were _raised_ here? Well, good thing you’re leading the party!” 

Aphollo shakes his head. “N-no, it’s not like that. I was never… I never went this far west. We didn’t have contact with the royals, really. The Dragonborn I lived with were a little… uh, defiant of the crown. So we never had much interaction beyond our isolated community.” 

“I see. I wasn’t aware that Dragonborn had a need for Paladins.” 

“W-well, I didn’t become a Paladin until after I left Cur’ain. My father—my adoptive father, I mean—he….” 

Aphollo suddenly freezes up, and he stares down at the splitting wood floor. The color on his cheeks has faded from red into ashen gray. 

He hears Klavi’or shuffle nearer. “Are you all right, Herr Paladin?” Concern is plain in his voice. “You don’t—you don’t have to keep going, if you don’t want to.” 

“I’m fine,” Aphollo says, clenching his fists hard at his side. “I’m _fine_!” 

One of the other party members groans out a complaint at the loud noise. It sounds like Eyma. 

“He told me that it was getting too dangerous in Cur’ain,” Aphollo explains. His tone is tight. “He said that the war was moving too far east, and that it wasn’t safe anymore. So, he… he pulled some strings, and he smuggled me over the border—to Angelite, where he said the war wouldn’t reach. And then he left me.” 

“…Left?” Klavi’or is so close now, Aphollo can glimpse the gold of his hair, even from where his eyes are downcast.  

“I haven’t heard from him since. I stayed at a church, and they turned me into a Paladin, I guess. I don’t know. Something like that.” 

There’s an awkwardness hanging heavy in the air. Even the other party members shuffle uneasily in their sleep. 

“…It sounds like he only wanted what was best for you,” Klavi’or tries. 

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard _that_ one before.” 

A hand finds its way to Aphollo’s armored thigh. It’s probably supposed to be a substitute for comfort, as Klavi’or can’t quite reach Aphollo’s shoulder from his sprawled position. “He cared about you enough to bring you to safety. It must’ve hurt him to leave you, too.” 

“No,” Aphollo corrects, avoiding his gaze, “he wanted to get rid of me. I don’t know why, or what, or how—but that’s the truth. He dropped me off at some crummy _church_ , and he went back home. To his blood family. Some _war_ —I don’t think we were in any danger at all. No other reason makes any sense. He just wanted to _abandon_ —” 

“Apollo.” 

The word—perhaps misspoken—makes Aphollo wrench his eyes away from the floor. Klavi’or’s hand squeezes Aphollo’s thigh, and he pushes himself up off the ground so that he’s sitting face-to-face with him. 

“Don’t ever think that way about yourself,” he says, tone deathly serious. It causes Aphollo to flinch. “I don’t know the details of your situation, admittedly—but please, don’t assume that’s the truth. It _can’t_ be the truth.” He leans closer, eyes blazing. “Nobody could ever want to do that to you. You’re too… ach, you’re too _you_.” 

Aphollo opens his mouth, but sound does not follow. 

“And somehow, someway….” Klavi’or’s words are getting louder, too, and more muddled together as his accent thickens. It’s as if the rage boiling within him is causing his brain to short-circuit, and his default is to revert to his first language. “ _Mein Gott, wie könnte es sein_? If your theory is correct—which I don’t believe for a second—then, well. Your father is an _arschloch_ , and he doesn’t deserve your time. _Du bist zu schön, mein Liebe._ Whatever the truth actually holds, the fault is not _yours_. You have to realize that.” 

Aphollo blinks once, twice—and then he turns his head away to face the darkness. A blush sweeps all the way from his cheeks to what can be seen of his neck, and he covers his face with his hands. 

“We’re not talking about this anymore,” he states as a definitive fact. 

“Herr Forehead—” 

“Please don’t touch me.” 

Klavi’or retracts his hand from Aphollo’s thigh, as if having been burned. 

The silence that develops between them is deafening. 

…Okay, well, uh. We can stop here, if you guys want to— 

“I’m _fine_ , Mr. Wright.” 

E-eep. He can be pretty scary when he wants to be, huh…? 

Uh, anyway. Continuing on, I guess. There’s, uh… a noise, from above. It sounds like giggling. 

Klavi’or glances up at the rafters. “Hmm? Did you hear something, Herr Paladin?” 

“Whatever.” 

The giggle gets louder. Actually, it sounds like two _separate_ pairs of giggles, loud and chittering. Before Aphollo and Klavi’or know exactly what’s happening, something drops down from the rafters—a humanoid form. 

Klavi’or leaps to his feet. “Hey, Fräuleins,” he calls over his shoulder at full-volume, “…it’s time to wake up.” 

Truth, Atheinah, and Eyma all instantly rocket upright. Almost like they’ve been awake and eavesdropping the entire time. 

“Wh-what’s going on?” Atheinah asks, probably about more than one thing. 

Klavi’or blows a note on his flute, and his four dancing lights blink back into reality. They look remarkably less cheery this time, though—they float stationary. 

In the new light, the form from the ceiling is revealed to be… a girl. Yes, when she stands fully upright—she is a girl, probably either high school or college aged, garbed in a tuxedo-type outfit. She’s wearing an innocent smile on her face. 

“Oh, hello,” she greets in a light voice. “Umm. How are you?” 

The group baulks at her. 

The girl fidgets, awkwardly. She’s carrying what looks to be a cane in her hand, and she twirls it between her fingers. “I-I see you’ve decided to, umm, spend the night here. But, ah, umm… that was probably… not a very good idea.”  

“Who the hell are you?” Eyma asks. Everybody’s pretty much gotten to their feet at this point, all poised at the ready for battle. Everybody except for Aphollo, that is, who seems preoccupied with his thoughts. 

“W-well,” the girl says, gripping her cane a little tighter. “Umm, this is technically… _my_ house? And, well… you didn’t exactly _knock_. It’s a little rude to barge into somebody’s house without permission.” 

Atheinah gawps at her. “You live here? In this disgusting place?” 

“I realize it’s a little messy at the moment,” the girl concedes. “S-So I guess I can see why you would think it’s uninhabited. Umm, if it were up to me, I’d let you go—really, I would! Or, umm, I’d take the smallest one.” She points her cane toward them—specifically to Truth. “I’d probably just take the Tiefling, really….” 

“M-me?” Truth slaps a gloved hand over her mouth. “Wh-what are you talking about? What’s going on? Who are you?” 

The girl takes a step back. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself! That’s awfully rude of me. My name is Bonnie von Famme,” she extends a hand, “and it’s nice to meet you!” 

When nobody makes a move towards her, Bonnie awkwardly brings her hand back to her side. “O-okay, I can see that you’re not really in the mood for playing games. That’s fine… I’ll go ahead and cut to the chase.” She takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself— 

—And, with a flip of her cape, she disappears into the shadows.  

“H-huh? Where’d she go?!” Truth cries. “What a trick! How did you do that?!” 

Bonnie’s voice reverberates from somewhere up above, within the rafters. For some reason, it sounds different: it’s sharper, angrier. “You punks just walked right in without even asking, huh?! That’s trespassin’! That’s illegal! Why, I oughta report you to the Queen herself—she’ll have your head on a platter!” 

When Bonnie appears again, accompanied by a puff of smoke, she does so on the opposite side of the room. The party spins around to face her. This time, she’s wearing a sinister smirk on her face, and instead of a cane, she’s wielding a parasol. 

“I mean, I _would_ turn ya over to the Queen,” she says, “but if I do that, I wouldn’t get to eat’cha!” 

“Eat?” Truth takes a step back. She glances over to Aphollo for support, but seeing that he’s still out of it, she turns to Atheinah instead. “H-hey, what does she mean…?” 

“Nobody’s going to be eating anybody!” Atheinah shouts, and punches a fist into her palm. “If you make a move on us, you’re going to regret it!” 

Bonnie’s voice sounds through the rafters again. Though, as it speaks, the Bonnie standing in front of them doesn’t move her mouth at all. 

“W-well, you did _kind_ of wander into our lair. That’s a little… well, it’s kind of asking for trouble, don’t you think? So I see what she means.” 

Suddenly, Bonnie appears—well, _another_ Bonnie appears—in her last position. She spins her cane, nervously. “I guess this all works out. If wandering heroes come to our manor, that means we won’t have to go hunting! And that means we don’t hurt innocent people—only stupid adventurers who don’t knock first.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying!” the other Bonnie says. “Finally coming around to my way of thinking, eh, Bonnie? As you should!” 

“I’m seeing double,” Eyma grumbles, “and I’m annoyed.” 

“If you’re Bonnie,” Truth says, pointing to the Bonnie with the cane, “then who is…?” 

As Truth gestures to the Bonnie with the parasol, the girl growls out an annoyed hiss. 

“It’s _Bettie_! Bettie von Famme, don’t wear it out! Or do, I don’t care—because you’re not gonna be around much longer, anyway!” 

“W-what do you—?” 

Bonnie and Bettie, with canes and parasols brandished, both leap towards the party in the center of the room. 

Time to roll for initiative. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is *so* stupid, oh my god, I'm sorry. But if you're still reading this, you're in for the long haul now, HOO BOY
> 
> Happy New Year, everybody! My old Japanese teacher used to say that her family believed that whatever you find yourself doing on the first of the New Year sets the precedent for the year to come. For example, she would always go hiking in the morning, so she'd have a year full of exercise and good health! But one time, she broke her ankle during the hike... and the rest of the year, she kept breaking bones and getting really sick! Now I think about that every year around this time....  
> Anyway, as I'm updating on the first (totally not still reeling from last night), here's hoping to an awesome year full of writing, D&D, and cute lawyers! I wish you all the best, too!
> 
> Thank you ever so much for reading and sticking with me this far! I really appreciate it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing I love writing more than....... combat  
> Here are those [second level character sheets](http://gavinner.tumblr.com/post/155064122335) again, as they’re still in the D&D verse (and this time, actually doing stuff)! Fun times ahoy

Aphollo ends up going first. 

“…Umm.” He’s a little dazed, but he does indeed draw his longsword. “What are these things, exactly? And why do they want to… kill us?” 

“Eat us!” Truth chirps in correction. 

You can do a… nature check on the girls, I guess, but it’s going to take up an action.  

Aphollo weighs his options. “…Actually, I have a pretty good idea of what these two are already. But, I guess I’ll double check.” He brings his sword up in front of his face, but doesn’t move to swing. “I want to use my Divine Sense.” 

As Aphollo channels the energy of his patron deity, a chill chatters his bones. He recognizes the feeling—it’s of undead, most certainly. He can also tell that there are undead near him; two of them, actually. 

“I thought so.” 

“Pholly!” Truth says, pouting at him. “If you figured out something important, then say it! I want to know what we’re up against!” 

“Spooky manor? ‘Eating?’ Undead? It’s pretty obvious.” 

“Oh,” Atheinah says, and her jaw drops. She seems to have figured it out, too. “ _Oh_.” 

“You have to be kidding me,” Eyma groans. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“Spooky,” adds Klavi’or, helpfully. 

“Does everybody have it figured out?! What the heck!” Truth plants her hands on her hips. “Can _one_ of you please enlighten me?!” 

Aphollo looks over his shoulder at her. “Vampires,” he answers. 

Extremely nerfed vampires, but yes—that’s right. Good job, Aphollo! I’m very proud of— 

“Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Wright.” 

Eep. Okay, uh. It’s… Bettie’s turn. 

Since the heroes are clustered together, they’re all equally appealing targets. Let’s roll a D10 and divide by two, for optimal fairness… ah, and our lucky victim is—Eyma Su’kai! 

“If I die again, I’m not going to be very happy.” 

Bettie swipes at Eyma with her parasol, and she lands a blow on the shoulder. Not a very hard blow, but a blow nonetheless. 

“Hah!” Eyma laughs, a smirk on her lips. “You’re going to have to try harder than that!” 

Bettie’s eyes flash up at her. “Is that a _challenge_? You’re the first to go, Elf! Mark my words!” 

She swipes at Eyma for a second time, aiming for her legs. This time, the blow is much more powerful, and it forces Eyma to a stumble. 

“Ye-yeowch! What the heck?!” she cries, wincing. “You can attack twice? That’s so unfair!” 

Don’t complain. If you complain about _this_ being unfair, I’m going to buff them back up to their _actual_ challenge rating. And that won’t be fun for anyone. 

Oh, and it’s Atheinah’s turn. 

“Got it!” Atheinah takes off at a sprint, running across the room towards the stairs. When she’s gone her limit, she turns around and points her gloved hands at Bettie. “Let’s go, Eldritch Blast!” 

The swirling beam shoots from her finger in a vortex of color. It hits Bettie square in the chest, and she gasps at the pain. 

“ _Ouch_! What the heck’s your problem?!” She sends Atheinah a glare rueful enough to constitute as a murder weapon. “You! You’re going down, Aasimar! You’re _all_ going down! And then you’re going to be breakfast, lunch, and dinner! For the next _week_!”  

It’s Klavi’or’s turn.  

“Oh.” He looks mildly confused. “So, ach—what’s the plan? We focus on one, and then we take out the other, ja? Or should we split up our fire power?” 

“You’re not gonna get the chance to do anything like that! Prepare to _die_!” 

“Kill the one who keeps talking,” says Eyma. 

“H-hey!” 

“Kill?” Truth repeats, a concerned frown twisting her lips. “B-but, they’re… Human! Well, not _Human_ , but… they can talk! They have thoughts and feelings and stuff… you don’t think we should kill them, do you?” 

Klavi’or, having pocketed his pan flute a while back, draws his rapier and takes a slash at Bettie. He misses by a mile. 

He curses in a foreign tongue. “ _Scheiße_ —! If they want to kill _us_ , we may have no choice but to return the favor. To save our skin, as it were.” 

Truth’s turn. 

“Wait a second, Herr Wright. I want to hear the Fräulein’s reasoning, first.” 

Truth clutches her hands into fists. “Reasoning? I don’t need reasoning! It’s common _sense_! You can’t just kill everything that doesn’t agree with you!” She shakes her head so violently, her hat threatens to slip off her head. “Maybe… maybe we can scare them off! So they don’t bother us, and we don’t bother them!” 

“We _are_ kind of in their house,” Aphollo says. 

“Scare them off?” Klavi’or says. “Hmm. We can try that. Violence doesn’t always have to be the answer, I suppose.” He sheaths his rapier and swings his lyre to his front, and then strums a series of bouncy notes. “Hmm, hmm—Fräulein, this one’s for you! Remember my music fondly, ja?” 

The music makes Truth feel inspired. Bardically. 

“Oh jeez,” she says, cupping a hand over her mouth “thank you so much! I-I’ll use it well!” 

…If you’re all serious about this “scaring off” thing—you can specify whether or not you want your attack to be lethal. If you attack non-lethally, even if the opponent drops to zero hit points, they won’t die. They’ll just, you know… be really close to death. But they’ll recover. Eventually.  

Truth grins from ear to ear. “Perfect! That’s what you guys are gonna do, okay? Meanwhile, I’m going to try… this!” She gives her wand a wave and murmurs a few words under her breath. “Abracadabra—and _alakazam_!” 

A puff of smoke rises from the ground a few paces away from Bonnie. The mist warps, billows, and glows with a powder-blue sheen, and then begins to clear—and in its place stands a giant, fifteen-foot-tall _wolf_ , up on its hind legs and bearing its fangs. 

Bonnie screams. 

“E-eeeeep! A _werewolf_?! It’s huge—!” She backs up a few paces. “H-how did you—? Aaaaah, I _hate_ werewolves…! They’re mean, and they’re smelly…!” 

Truth tips her hat. “Haha, you messed with the wrong Wizard! Don’t you know? I’m the best Conjuration Wizard in the whole plane!” 

“C-conjuration?!” Bonnie repeats. Her face has gone deathly pale—well, paler than it was before, anyway. Considering she’s a vampire and all. 

Aphollo looks over at Truth with a frown. “Conjuration? I thought you said—” 

Truth puts a finger to her lip with a wink: a silent, thievish signal for him to shush.

Bonnie uses her turn to focus on the great beast towering above her. She wants to attack it, or run, or _something_ , but she’s petrified with fear.

“Ahh, it’s not even a full moon tonight! Th-that’s some magic trick!” She covers her head with her hands and kneels down to the ground, content with cowering for the time being.

Eyma, wielding her shortsword, steps forward to take a slash at Bettie. She lands a hit, right in Bettie’s shoulder. The slash slices through her tuxedo sleeve, and it would’ve drawn blood on any other victim—but the wound remains dry. It’s as if Bettie is made from plastic rather than bone. 

Still, the pain registers on her face, and she spits out a curse. Eyma uses the opportunity to disengage from combat, and hastens towards the stairs in order to avoid the brunt of Bettie’s rage. 

Just as Eyma finishes her getaway, Aphollo raises his longsword. “Okay, uh—if we’re going to _scare_ them off… I guess this should be a nonlethal blow, right?” He stares at the blade, contemplating his next attack. “Okay, well—let’s try… this.” 

He murmurs a prayer under his breath: “P-prayer? Do I really need a prayer? I don’t know… uh, ‘believe in yourself,’ I guess?” And, when he swings—and hits—Bettie’s waist, his sword _flashes_ with white, radiant light. For that single instant of contact, the entire room illuminates with a divine glow—until Aphollo wrenches his sword away. 

Bettie screeches and doubles over. 

“B-Bettie!” Bonnie cries from her whimpering spot on the ground. “A-are you all right?” 

Instead of responding with something witty or mean, Bettie growls and leaps at the person who just did a whopping sixteen damage to her—striking with her talon-like nails. She scratches Aphollo clean down the face, catching the skin of his eye all the way to his bottom lip.  

He hisses and swabs the blood beginning to trickle down his chin. “That was uncalled—” 

Bettie ignores him entirely, choosing to focus on Truth and her menacing werewolf. She inspects the creature head-to-claw, and then grits her teeth together. 

“You little _imp_!” she snarls. “That’s not a werewolf—it’s a fake! It’s not making any noise at all! Don’t you know how _loud_ werewolf scum are? Always panting and spitting and licking themselves in weird places?”

Truth freezes in place. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she bluffs. “Mr. Wolf is just quiet, that’s all!” 

“Liar! Cheat!” Bettie lunges at Truth, provoking an attack of opportunity from Aphollo and Klavi’or. Aphollo chooses not to take it, and Klavi’or can’t, as he still has his lyre equipped. She grabs Truth’s arm, earning her a shriek, and then yanks it up to her own mouth. 

“W-what are you— _eeeek_!” 

Bettie clamps her teeth tight around the meat of Truth’s forearm, her fangs easily piercing her clothes. All of the color drains from Truth’s face, and her Silent Image—her concentration now broken—fades into mist. 

When Bettie pulls away, she licks her blood-reddened lips and snickers. “Boy, I’m already feeling refreshed! Your blood is so _sweet_!” 

Truth stumbles backwards, legs trembling like gelatin and mouth agape. She tries to speak, but her sentences come out stuttered and muddled. “I—she—my _arm_ —” 

“ _Truth_!” Atheinah cries from her safe spot, over sixty feet away from the actual battle (what a wimp). “Are you—all right?!” 

Aphollo also turns to her with concern. “Are you okay? Do you need healing?” 

“Healing? Are you kidding?” Truth points her wand at Bettie accusingly. “She _lowered_ my maximum health points! For good! So even if you did heal me, it wouldn’t do anything!” She looks a little… uh, peeved off. I’m sorry, Trucy, but that’s just how the game works, you know…? 

“For good?” Klavi’or asks. “Ach, that seems a little harsh, doesn’t it?” 

They’re not lowered for _good_ —just until your next long rest. Or the end of the battle… I haven’t decided on how nice I should be. 

“Don’t worry—this battle will be over real quick!” Atheinah beams her most daring grin. “Okay, let’s see! They’re undead, right? So if I attack with a neurotic spell… it probably won’t do all that much damage, huh?” 

Interesting theory.

Incidentally, the attacks made by the party’s weapons—with the exception of Aphollo’s Divine Smite and Atheinah’s Eldritch Blast—don’t seem to be doing any lasting damage. Bettie, despite taking the brunt of the blows, remains sprightly. That might be because she just had a snack, though. 

“Hmm. So magic’s the way to go, huh?” The confidence in her smile teeters a tad. “I… really hate to run away and cast nothing but Eldritch Blast over and over again, but that seems to be the way to go.” 

That’s what Warlocks do. Although, the fact that you’re hiding from all of the action is a little—well, cheap. Even Truth is in the fray, and she doesn’t have armor. 

“Yeah, and I’m almost dead!” 

…On second thought, maybe Atheinah has the right idea. 

“Whatever! It’s time for another Eldritch Blast!” Another colorful beam spirals from Atheinah’s extended finger, socking Bettie upside the head and leaving a twisting Lovecraftian burn down her cheeks.

She hollers.

Klavi’or taps a beat on the body of his lyre. “Magic, hmm? I would try another Thunderwave, but with our close proximity, that’s probably not the wisest of options.” 

“I’ll say,” Eyma mutters. 

“Unfortunately, most of my other spells don’t mesh well with combat situations. I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He picks at a few strings, humming to himself all the while. “But let’s try this one on for size, ja? This one’s for….” Klavi’or gestures to Bonnie, who has since stood up and brushed herself off. “…The little _häschen_ over there.” 

Bonnie blinks. “H-huh? Me?” She looks a little frazzled. “U-umm, you don’t need to… well, we _are_ in the middle of a battle, but, umm….” 

Klavi’or’s lips flow as if singing a lyric. Yet, the movement is wordless—even the strumming of his lyre has gone deathly quiet. 

Bonnie’s face starts to green.

“Ah… this… what—?” She covers her ears and looks around frantically, as if trying to find the source of some silent noise. “W-what—it’s— _eeeeek_! Y-you people are… evil! I don’t wanna do this anymore!” 

And, with hands still fixed firmly over her ears, Bonnie makes a beeline sprint away from Klavi’or and for the stairs. Tears are rolling down her cheeks. As she passes Eyma, the Elf attempts a swing—but she misses spectacularly. Aphollo, again, chooses not to use his reaction.

“Aww,” Truth says, “Klavi’or, you made her cry! That wasn’t very nice.” 

Aphollo snorts, “Yeah, what exactly did you _do_? I didn’t hear anything.” 

“I sang her a song,” Klavi’or responds. His grin looks, for lack of a better word, _wicked_. Maybe he’s enjoying this a bit too much. “But, hmm… judging from her reaction, she didn’t seem to be a fan. Ach, everybody’s a critic.” 

Bettie faces her fleeing twin. “Bonnie! What do you think you’re doing?! You can’t just _run away_!”  

“Yes I can! You’re not the boss of me!” Bonnie’s over thirty feet away by this point. “T-this isn’t fun anymore! Let’s let them go!” 

“Let them go? Are you _crazy_? We can’t do that!” Bettie points her parasol at the lot of them—specifically, she jabs harshly in Aphollo’s direction. “These little holy warriors are gonna call the churches on us and have us evicted! Branded! Or worse, _hunted_! I’m talking garlic, wooden stakes through the heart, stupid white-haired pretty boys with longcoats! Do you want that?” 

“N-not again,” Bonnie sniffles. 

“Exactly! So we have to fight! Defend our turf! We _gotta_!”  

“B-but I don’t want to….” 

As the two sisters bicker, Truth taps her wand against the rim of her hat, thinking. “I don’t really want to attack in the middle of a conversation, but… I guess I have no choice.” She points her wand at Bettie, whistles a note, and blasts a cone of flame at her. It’s about to miss, but Truth—remembering the inspiration Klavi’or had given her—manages to, at the last second, aim the Fire Bolt at just the right angle.

Bettie’s face, shadowed dynamically by the light of the fire, contorts in annoyance. “That’s real cute coming from _you_ , Tiefling! You’re dead meat! All of you, dead meat! Dead! I’m gonna rip your heads off one by one and suck you _dry_! I’ll use your skin as throne rugs and your bones as my _furniture_!” 

“Bettie,” Bonnie mewls, “that’s disgusting!” 

“They deserve it!” She pats out the last of the remaining flames on her tuxedo jacket and huffs out an ugly breath. “Yeah, yeah—then we’ll tack their heads up to the door so no more _stupid_ adventurers come _wandering_ into our house like a bunch of homeless _freeloaders_!”  

Bonnie doesn’t look like she’s preparing to make any sort of move to attack. Instead, she sends a nervous glance in Atheinah’s direction and tiptoes closer to the stairs. 

“W-why can’t we just go back to drinking lamb’s blood…?” she asks, barely audible to anybody but Atheinah. “Nobody gets hurt, except the lambs. And Farmer Retingz’s socioeconomic status, I guess, but he’s a jerk, so….” 

That appears to be her entire turn. So, it’s Eyma’s turn, but— 

—Oh. Eyma’s… gone. She was slinking a bit away from Truth, Klavi’or, and Aphollo before, but now she’s vanished entirely. Even with the dancing lights overhead, there’s plenty of shadow to lurk in—maybe she’s hiding. Or she got bored. 

“The non-magical weapons weren’t doing anything, anyway,” a voice from somewhere beyond says. “I don’t want to die again.” 

_MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH._  

At least she has her priorities. 

Back to the top, with Aphollo. Bettie’s looking a little worse for wear, though it’s difficult to tell if that’s because of the physical or the emotional damage she’s taken.

“Okay, well,” Aphollo says, concentrating all of his energy on the godliness running through his veins, “this is non-lethal. I want to reiterate that.” 

He swings his sword, and as it connects with Bettie’s shoulder, it flares with another dazzlingly bright spark of light.

Bettie clings to the wound, as if to plug the non-existent blood. Where the tuxedo’s falling off, her skin is exposed—the spots where she has been nicked with Aphollo’s Smite have yellowed and reddened, as if having been roasted by fire.  

She stumbles back, still clutching at her arm. She seems to have lost the ability to jeer or jest—rather, she lets out a pained roar, and leaps at the closest available target. As Eyma has disappeared, Atheinah is leagues away, and Truth has put a little distance between herself and the quarrel, she only has two potential targets. 

Fearing the burn of Aphollo’s blade, she lashes at Klavi’or with her sharp nails. She pierces through the armor of Klavi’or’s right arm, as well as the underlying skin. 

“ _Ach_!”  

Bettie opens her mouth, revealing her bloodstained fangs. She moves to seal the gap in between them, readying her killing kiss—

“I don’t think so.” 

—When Aphollo, shield brandished, steps in between them. Bettie’s caught by surprise by his quick reaction, and she staggers. Aphollo uses the chance to butt her back with the face of his shield. 

“Why, you—!” Bettie’s fangs clench. “Get out of my _way_!”  

Aphollo remains steadfast. His standing in front of Klavi’or, sword and shield at the ready… oh man, it’s a pretty cute image. Klavi’or towers over him in height, and with a harder jawline and more defined features, he looks _way_ more intimidating than baby-faced Aphollo. And even with their differences in armor and class, Aphollo doesn’t seem natural as the offensive, protective one. Their positions should be reversed.  

“Reversed? No way!” Aphollo straightens up in a futile attempt to make himself look taller. “I’m the only one on this team who can take a hit! Truth got hit once, and she’s almost dead!” 

“Thanks for worrying about me, by the way,” Truth says. “It’s not like I’m at two hit points or anything….” 

“Herr Paladin,” Klavi’or croons, clasping his hands together in imitation of a blushing princess, “you _saved_ me! Why, I didn’t think you cared.” 

The look on Aphollo’s face reveals that he already regrets his decision. “I don’t. Don’t—don’t get the wrong idea. I just don’t want to deal with your dead body.” 

“So fierce! You have a warrior’s heart, ja? How romantic. If only I were of the School of Valor—your heroics would go down in history!” 

“I want to use my reaction to stab the Bard.” 

“H- _hey_!” 

You only have one reaction per round of combat, and I’m afraid you used that up already protecting him—unfortunately. That’ll have to wait for another time. 

Atheinah, now over ninety feet away (oh c’mon, now you’re just showing off), throws her voice so that the rest of the party can hear her. “Woo-hoo, let’s Eldritch Blast again!” At the point of her finger, another rainbow-colored braid of energy blazes through the air. 

When it hits Bettie, square in the chest, the force is enough to send her flying—literally _flying_ —across the room. She twists multiple revolutions in the air, before she lands face-down with a hard thud. She doesn’t move to get up, either. 

“ _Bettie_!” Bonnie cries out, and she sprints over to her sister’s side.

Oh, combat is suspended, I guess.

  


* * *

  


Atheinah blinks, not expecting that amount of power to come from one cantrip. She stares down at her still-sizzling fingertips and frowns, before a sudden spark of realization radiates over her face. “W-wait! That was _non-lethal_! I meant it to be non-lethal, I swear!”  

“You didn’t specify, Atheinah!” Truth says, covering her mouth in horror. “Ah—you _killed_ her!” She abandons her spot and also rushes over to Bettie—as if they haven’t just spent the last, uh, eighteen seconds trying to murder one another. 

As the rest of the party edges closer—well, as Aphollo and Klavi’or edge closer, anyway (Eyma is lurking, and Atheinah is petrified in catatonic terror)—they’re able to get a better look at Bettie’s body. Bonnie has twisted her over, cradling her head in her lap. She’s shaking her shoulders, too, in a desperate attempt to wake her up.  

Bonnie’s words are heavy, and the rapid fluttering of her eyelashes threatens more tears. “B-Bettie! Please, you can’t leave me all alone! You can’t die…!” 

“Aren’t they already dead?” Aphollo asks, and Truth elbows him hard in the stomach. 

“Is she still alive?” Truth asks Bonnie. She kneels next to her, trying to examine Bettie closer. Her wizard’s hat droops over her face, and her expression is serious.  

The staccato rhythm of Bettie’s breathing implies that she isn’t quite dead. Or re-dead, I suppose. 

“Do vampires have to breathe?” Aphollo wonders aloud. He’s nonstop with the sarcasm today, isn’t he? “N-no, I’m serious! I’m genuinely curious!” 

“Hey!” Truth raises her head and glares fearsomely at both Aphollo and Klavi’or. “One of you, get over here! We have to help!” 

Klavi’or hums and pushes some loose strands of hair out of his eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s wise, Fräulein. Don’t you think the battle will start back up again if we try to stabilize her?” 

“St-stabilize?” Bonnie repeats, tearing her gaze away from Bettie. Her eyes are wide, and her dark-plum hair has tangled from all of the violent motions she has been making. “Can one of you help her?” 

Truth nods her head. “Pholly and Klavi’or can both heal! And—one of you _has_ to!”  

Aphollo and Klavi’or look at one another, Aphollo frowning and Klavi’or close to snickering. 

“I’m not sure if my healing her is a good idea,” Aphollo says, pushing an index finger to his forehead. “Uh, she didn’t seem to like that Divine Smite business earlier, and I heal with divine power, too. I don’t want to end up doing more damage.” 

“I think the technicality of how the healing is performed is only flavor for the actual mechanics of the game,” Klavi’or refutes. 

“Well, I’m not willing to stake a fictional character’s life on it. How about you heal her?” 

Klavi’or snaps his fingers in-time to a rhythm only audible in his head. “Herr Paladin, I would—but, hmm. My spell slots are a commodity that I don’t want to use up right away, ja? We have a full day of adventuring ahead of us tomorrow, and I wouldn’t want to use all of my resources now.”  

“Lay on Hands works on a long rest basis, too.”

“But you have a larger pool to work with, don’t you? I don’t see—” 

“Oh, for the love of gosh,” Truth says at a volume loud enough to make both of the grown men flinch, “shut _up_!” She points her wand at Klavi’or. “You should do it, because Pholly’s right—his type of healing might hurt her. We all have to make sacrifices! Your spell slots aren’t that important, so stop whining about it!” 

Klavi’or blubbers at her, apparently not expecting to be addressed in such a colloquial manner. The stupid expression on his face is enough to draw Eyma out of the shadows. 

“Ha- _ha_ , your _face_!” she says, beaming with malice. Her arms clutch her sides, and laughter rolls deep within her chest. “Man, do I enjoy seeing you knocked down a peg or two!” 

Klavi’or looks like he wants to snap back at her, but he holds his tongue. 

As he draws closer to Bettie, Bonnie squeaks and hides behind Truth. She covers her ears out of reflex—perhaps remembering the Dissonant Whispers that had plagued her mind the last time Klavi’or had played a song. Truth broadens her stance, almost protectively. 

“Let’s give her some words of encouragement, ja?” Klavi’or says, and then begins a gentle tune. His fingers dance and pluck and glide down the strings in an uplifting melody. 

As he plays, Atheinah musters up the courage to join the rest of the group. Even so, she ducks behind Aphollo’s larger, armor-clad form to watch the performance take place.  

“I-I don’t really want to be the first thing she sees when she wakes up,” she explains with a nervous pet of her hair. 

As the lyre sings, the burns around Bettie’s shoulders and chest fade so that the swelling cools, and the ugly, dark colors lighten into pastels. Bettie stirs for a moment, her face contorting in wincing discomfort, before she finally opens her eyes. 

“I’mma kill all of you,” she half-slurs. 

“Bettie, you’re alive!” Bonnie sobs, holding her close. Bettie grumbles a few choice words of complaint, but she doesn’t have the strength to push her away. 

“Get offa me.” 

“I-I thought you were a goner! I… I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you were gone, Bettie! I would be so sad!” 

“I’m serious. Get _off_ of me.” 

Klavi’or stops his strumming and returns to his proper footing, satisfied with his effort. “Ja, no need to thank me. All in a day’s work.” 

“No need to _thank_ you?” Aphollo squawks. “We’re the ones who almost killed her in the first place.” 

“No, no,” Bonnie says, looking up at the group of them. “Thank you, Mr. Bard. I u-understand that we were the ones who attacked you, and that was… really mean! I do understand. B-but you did trespass, and we _do_ need to eat….” She sighs, her voice strained and tired. “But we probably shouldn’t have tried to kill you. So please, forgive us for being bad hosts.” 

Bettie wiggles a little in her hold. “I’m still gonna kill them!”  

Truth shakes her head and lays a hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. The vampire is a little surprised at the friendly touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She would be blushing, if she had any blood in her veins.   

“We were in the wrong, too,” Truth says. “It’s both of our faults. We both jumped to some pretty big conclusions! Let’s try putting the past behind us, okay?” 

“Behind us? No way! You almost _killed_ me!” Bettie says. She tries to sit up, but a stroke of pain flashes across her face, and she groans out a complaint. 

Bonnie soothes a hand over her sister’s head. “I think that sounds like a good idea. I’m sorry… we won’t try anything else, we swear. And if you promise not to hurt us, we’ll let you spend the rest of the night!” She glances up at the high, arching windows, and at the moonlight streaming through the chandelier. “What’s left of it, anyway….” 

“Deal!” Truth answers for the rest of the party. “Guys, they’re so nice! See, I told you killing wasn’t the way to go!” 

 Klavi’or chuckles, while Aphollo deflates. Atheinah, still nervous, mumbles a few words about being more careful with spells, and Eyma reaches into her satchel to munch on whatever snack she brought with her.  

“It’s not like we could’ve killed them, anyway,” the Elf says through a mouthful of chocolate-covered treat. “At least, _I_ couldn’t have. I’m not magic, like _some_ people.” Her eyebrows twitch, and her chewing grows the slightest bit more… violent. 

Sensing that Eyma is annoyed, Bonnie bites her bottom lip. “A-ah. Umm. Anyway. Do you mind me asking what you guys are doing out here…? These woods aren’t traveled very often. Cur’ainese people aren’t much for… adventure.” 

“Oh, we’re not from Cur’ain,” Truth says. “We’re from Angelite!” 

Bettie props herself up on her elbows. It’s the only half-respectable stance she can manage in her bruised-and-beaten state. “Angelite? How the heck did you get over the border? Trespassers!” 

Truth waves her hands in front of her face. “No, that’s not it! We were invited here! By the Queen!” 

“The _Queen_? Queen Gha’ran?” Bonnie asks. “O-oh my! You must be really important!” 

“They’re liars, Bonnie! Nobody gets to _speak_ with the Queen!” 

“It’s the truth!” says Truth. “We’re supposed to travel to Dragon’s Deep and slay the dragon living there!”  

“No,” Aphollo interjects. “We’re supposed to investigate Dragon’s Deep and determine if there’s evidence of a dragon ever having lived there, and then search for evidence of a magical portal… or pretty much any evidence that doesn’t point to Princess Ray’fah’s guilt.” He shuffles awkwardly in place. “I-I wrote everything down, in case anyone wants a refresher. You’re supposed to do that, right…?” 

“Why would you ever want to go to a place as dreadful as Dragon’s Deep?” Bonnie asks, apparently not having registered Aphollo’s explanation at all. “It’s s-scary! They say that an _actual_ dragon used to live there!” 

“Used to?” Aphollo asks with a blink. “As in, doesn’t anymore?” 

Bonnie nods, her body trembling. “Mmm-hmm. She died a long time ago. The stories say that her ghost still haunts the caverns, and she’ll gobble up anybody who dares set foot there!” 

“People go there all the time,” Bettie adds. “The dragon left its whole treasure hoard behind—so dumb adventurers like often try nabbing some of it for themselves. Supposedly, among the hoard, there’s something _super_ special: a magical artifact called the Mother’s Orb. Legend states that, if one were to figure out the trick to unlocking its riddle, they would be gifted with immense magical power—enough to warrant being called ‘ _the strongest in the plane_.’ But, legend also says that the orb only appears to those ‘pure of heart’ or some fairytale crap like that, and—well, people who go out of their way to violate a dead dragon’s most prized possessions don’t tend to be very _pure of heart_.”

“Moth—er’s—Orb,” Aphollo repeats as he (mentally) jots down Bonnie’s story. “This all sounds pretty MacGuffin-y, Mr. Wright.”

I’ve been busy, all right? I don’t have time to come up with any Oscar-worthy stories, here.

…Anyway, Bettie’s not actually done with her spiel. A cruel smile twists the corners of her lips, and she says, “Heh-heh—from what I’ve heard, though, the cavern the dragon used to live in is one big labyrinth! People rarely return. Even in death, the dragon’s still slaying those selfish enough to want to steal pieces of its hard-earned treasure!” 

Aphollo listens to the rest of Bettie’s tale intently, and then crosses his arms over his chest. “Huh. That doesn’t make any sense, though. The dragon was supposedly summoned to Dragon’s Deep, wasn’t it?” 

“Maybe the dragon’s still alive?” Atheinah offers. 

Truth bobs her head. “Or maybe its ghost was summoned!” 

“It could’ve been a dragon from a different location,” Eyma says. “I mean, I’m no magic expert, but… whose word are we going on that the portal led to Dragon’s Deep? Queen Gha’ran’s? She was acting suspicious to begin with—I don’t really trust her.” 

“Me neither,” says Aphollo. “She was awfully quick to accuse her own daughter. I mean, I know she has an alibi and everything—and if Ray’fah’s the only other person who can achieve that level of magic, then I understand the reasoning.” He frowns. “I don’t know enough about magic to determine what’s a contradiction, and what isn’t.” 

“The Queen is definitely the tough-love type.” Bonnie plays with her sister’s hair absentmindedly as she speaks. Bettie looks annoyed, but doesn’t do anything to make her stop. “Whenever she appears in public with the Princess, she seems so nasty to her. Like Bettie is to me!” 

“Hey,” Bettie growls. 

“But I’m sure she loves her all the same.” Bonnie smiles. “I know Bettie still loves me, even if she can be a little mean. And I love her, too! I doubt the Queen would be as cruel as to accuse her own daughter of something as vile as that breed of dark magic.” 

Aphollo gnaws on the inside of his cheek as he thinks. “It doesn’t make any sense. If Ray’fah didn’t do it, and Gha’ran didn’t do it… then there’s no way the dragon could’ve been summoned.”  

“Maybe it wasn’t summoned,” says Klavi’or. He only seems to be paying half-attention, much too interested in the care of his instrument to be fully invested. 

Aphollo looks at him. 

“I mean,” Klavi’or continues, offering Aphollo a lazy smile, “if Ray’fah _didn’t_ summon it, and Gha’ran _couldn’t_ have summoned it, then like you said—it couldn’t have been summoned. Yet, a dragon most certainly appeared, and it most certainly ravaged the castle.” He plucks an off-key note. “So perhaps, the dragon appeared through another means of magic.” 

Truth leaps to her feet. “Maybe it was an illusion!” she says, eyes twinkling. “My father used to do really impressive illusions—like dogs that could talk and giant spiders that could tap-dance!” 

“Ja—our Fräulein Witch made a very convincing werewolf earlier, and she isn’t that skilled of a Wizard yet. I don’t know much about magic, either… but I don’t think we should rule out the possibility that there may be something more going on here.” 

“Well,” Aphollo says, “why are we even going to Dragon’s Deep if it’s obvious that a dragon doesn’t live there? Shouldn’t we turn back and try to prove Ray’fah’s innocence in a more… _productive_ way?” 

“I think you’re forgetting that the Queen didn’t give us much of a choice,” Atheinah says through a grimace. “She just kind of sent us off. Almost like she didn’t want us around.” 

“Smells like a conspiracy,” Eyma mutters. 

Bonnie looks from Aphollo, to Klavi’or, to the rest of the group. Her expression has clouded over. “U-umm, I don’t really know what you guys are talking about, but… Dragon’s Deep is really dangerous. M-most people don’t come back.” She pushes her two index fingers together. “But when they do, they come back with a lot of treasure! I-I doubt the Queen would send you to your death like that—she’s too nice!” She shakes her head. “No, there has to be a reason! Maybe there’s something there she wants you to see? Yeah, that has to be it!”  

“Like that orb thing, right?” Aphollo asks. 

“W-well, I don’t know! But why else would she send you there?” 

“To kill us?” Eyma suggests. “If it’s as dangerous as you say.” 

“Eep! No, that can’t be it at all! I refuse to believe it!” 

“Hey.” Bettie bites her fangs together with a chattering noise to get her sister’s attention. “I’m tired.” 

Bonnie blinks at her, confused. 

“It’s almost morning,” she goes on, “and I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. I want these people out of my house.” She turns to the rest of them. “Listen, stay here the rest of the night. I don’t care. When the sun rises, continue heading east on this path until you get to the mountains with the glowing moss.” 

Truth opens her mouth in question, but Bettie immediately cuts her off: “Don’t worry, you’ll know exactly what I mean. You won’t be able to miss them. Anyway, glowing mountains—there’s a switchback trail there that leads up into the mountain range. When the air starts to get misty—like, unnaturally misty—you’re almost there. Start looking around for a cave entrance. Supposedly, it’s pretty obvious. Whatever you’re looking for will be in there, definitely.” 

Aphollo is the only one to try writing all of that down. He does so, scribbling furiously. 

“Right,” he says, “is the cave—?” 

“I don’t know,” Bettie says. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’m going to bed now.” She elbows Bonnie hard in the waist. 

“O-ow!” 

“Carry me upstairs.” 

“B-but, don’t you want to see them off? Or talk with them more? Or—?” 

“No, I told you already! I’m tired, and I want to sleep! So this game is over, do you hear me? Over!” 

Well, the session is over, at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeesh  
> Sorry for the late update today (but hey, it's still technically Sunday)! I’ve had a busy day/week. I’m sorry if this isn’t quite as "polished" as normal -- it’s really difficult for me to determine if something’s weird after looking at it so much for so long (especially difficult for me w/ action), but I want to update quickly, so… yeah.  
> Two chapters today, though! For those of you bored with the D&D crap.
> 
> Thank you for rrrrrreeading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of update! AO3 is really wonky tonight (I somehow uploaded the last chapter twice), so please let me know if something seems out-of-whack!

Somehow, it was almost midnight. Again. 

Granted, they had started a little late—Ema hadn’t arrived until six. When asked if they could start without her, she had responded in a series of passive-aggressive texts: “No, it’s fine. Really. You don’t need me, anyway. Have fun on your adventure. Without me.” 

They really needed to stop doing this. Well, Apollo needed to, at least—midnight was way past his bedtime. He was more of an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy.

He helped Mr. Wright set the furniture back into its proper position (and by that he meant, Mr. Wright told him where everything went, and Apollo did all of the physical labor) while the four others talked among themselves. Apollo only caught a few words, the most interesting of which were _trial_ and _evidence_. Apparently, Ema was appearing at Athena’s trial the next day. 

“But I wanted to catch up with Mr. Wright again,” she explained as she ran a hand through her ratty brown hair. “So I figured I could skimp on a bit of sleep.” 

“That was your excuse last week!” Trucy said, an evil glint in her eye. “You like playing with us, don’t you, Ema?” 

Instead of responding, Ema only shoved her mouth full of Snackoos. 

“It really is a lot of fun,” Athena chirped, nodding her head. “It’s a good way to relieve stress! I’ve been worried all day about the trial tomorrow, but… I think this managed to clear my head a little. I’m ready to kick Simon’s butt, you mark my words!” 

“All right, kids,” Mr. Wright said as soon as he was satisfied with Apollo’s work. “I hate to kick you out, but I’m afraid I’m going to kick you out. Trucy and I should be heading home.” 

“Do you need a ride, Mr. Wright?” Athena asked. 

“No, we’re fine. It’s not that long of a walk—right, Trucy?” 

“B-but I want to ride in Athena’s car! We never get to ride in cars, Daddy!” 

Mr. Wright laughed and scratched the back of his head. “Well, there’s a lot of reasons for that. I got hit by a car once, you know. It hurt.” 

“Oh, you’re just a big baby!” 

Eventually, Mr. Wright ushered all five of them out of the office and locked the door behind them. As they made their way into the crisp springtime air, Mr. Wright and Trucy waved their guests a good-bye, and took off down the lamppost-lit street. Apollo, Ema, Athena, and Prosecutor Gavin were left to their awkward selves. 

“Do either of you guys need a ride?” Athena said to Apollo and Ema. Ema opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a chance, Athena turned to Gavin. “No? Okay, cool. Prosecutor Gavin, do you think we could walk together?” 

Gavin didn’t look like he had expected to be addressed—not by Athena, anyway. “Eh?” Even so, he slipped into a relaxed smile, hand-in-pockets and all. “Ja, Fräulein Cykes. Did you park around back, too?” 

“It’s not that. I wanted to….” She frowned. Widget was stuck in a sunlight-yellow color—one to match her jacket. That was shock, Apollo knew, but he had no idea why it _was_ that color. “Uh. Do you think we could talk?” 

Talk? Apollo visibly stiffened. What did they need to talk about? He didn’t think Athena and Gavin were particularly close. Was it something about the case? Did they have something in common…? 

Gavin tilted his head. “Ja, ja—of course. I would love to.” He glanced over at Apollo and Ema and offered them a casual wave. “I’ll see you both some other time. Get home safely, ja?” 

Ema huffed. Apollo tried to mumble something in return, but for some reason, the words got caught in his throat. He was still trying to puzzle out what the heck Athena could possibly want to talk with _Prosecutor Gavin_ about. They didn’t know each other that well, did they? Did Athena want to get to know him _better_? But—why? What was up with that? 

Athena and Gavin turned their backs on him and made their way down the street. Athena immediately started talking, but in a language Apollo couldn’t understand. Judging from how Gavin slipped into the same tongue, he guessed that it was German. He tried to pick up words or names, but he couldn’t make out a thing, save for the scattered “ _ja, Fräuleins_ ” and “ _achtungs_.”

At one point, Athena said something that made Gavin laugh: a light, tittering sound Apollo remembered drawing from him earlier that week. He figured that Gavin only laughed like that when he was comfortable, or when he found something genuinely hilarious. What had Athena said that was so funny? What _could_ she have—? 

“Jesus, Apollo. How has that vein on your forehead not burst yet?” 

Apollo’s heart lurched into his throat. He had been concentrating so hard on Gavin and Athena, he had forgotten Ema was standing next to him. 

“S-sorry,” he muttered, quickly ducking his head so she couldn’t see his spreading blush. Not that she would likely be able to, anyway—it was dark outside, and the flickering lamplights didn’t do much to rectify that. 

Ema stared at him for a handful of seconds, then batted her gaze to Gavin and Athena, then back to him again. “What? Are you worried about her or something?” She snorted. “Don’t be. Gavin may be a glimmerous fop, but he’s no sleaze. He wouldn’t go for somebody that young.” She wrinkled her nose. “How old is Athena, again? Like, twenty-one or something?” 

“She’s nineteen,” Apollo grumbled. But no, Ema’s assumption was wrong—that wasn’t why he was annoyed.

Wait, he wasn’t _annoyed_ at all! What reason did he have to be annoyed? 

Ema gaped at him. “ _Nineteen_? What the hell? Do you—did she— _what_?” Her eyebrow twitched, and she made a move for her handbag slung over her shoulder—home to her Snackoos—but she caught herself at the last moment. Resisting the urge, Apollo figured. It wasn’t healthy to eat too much sugar before bedtime. “Nngh. I didn’t become a forensic investigator until I was twenty-seven, and this girl’s an accomplished defense attorney at _nineteen_? I’m writing an angry letter to God.” 

Athena and Gavin were a distance away, now. Apollo didn’t have a clue where they were headed—there was a parking lot around back, so why were they walking all the way down the street? It didn’t make any sense. 

Gavin’s deep voice carried through the starry air. Athena said something to make him laugh, then stutter—as if he were embarrassed. Apollo could see him cover his mouth, and he couldn’t pick up on heads or tails of their conversation any longer. 

“Hey. Snap out of it.” 

Ema slung her bag and whacked Apollo hard in the ass, and—oh, god, that thing was heavier than it looked! Not that it looked light to begin with, with it overflowing with beakers and test tubes and most assuredly more Snackoos, but—

“ _Ow_!” Apollo turned to face her, rubbing his backside. “What was that for?!” 

“If it’s not that, why are you so down in the dumps?” Ema asked. Her gaze traveled from the tips of his horned hairdo all the way to his shoes. “You’re practically wilting. I don’t like the fop either, but you’re usually more—composed about it, I guess.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Bluffing won’t get you anywhere with me, Justice. You wear your heart on your rolled-up sleeve.” She raised her free hand to her head and flicked her rose-tinted glasses so they rested snugly over her nose.

Apollo had to wonder how she could see with those things on, much less see in the dark.

“But it’s true,” he said, his voice coming out as a raspy whine. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. “It’s fine. I’m not upset or anything like that.” 

“So you _are_ upset!” 

“I literally just said—” 

“Are you jealous? I mean, he _does_ have a lot going for him. Looks, money, youth. But, at the end of the day, he’s a giant _prick_ —so I wouldn’t waste too much time comparing yourself to him.” Ema took a step forward and wiggled a condescending finger in his face, so close to him that she was pretty much just tapping his nose. “Trust me, Apollo—you’re leagues more tolerable than he is.” 

Apollo suspected that she was trying to compliment him. 

“…Thanks,” he said, “but that isn’t it. Like I said, there isn’t any _it_. I just….” He glanced back over to Athena and Gavin’s two murky forms. They were pretty much invisible, only shaky flecks on the cityscape horizon. “I have to wonder what they’re talking about.” 

“Hmm. They were speaking German. That’s kinda weird, don’tcha think? Gavin only speaks German when he’s trying to be cool, or when he’s really pissed off. You know, like how he was earlier tonight.” 

“Earlier?” Apollo had to think for a few seconds, retracing the events of that night to figure out what Ema was referring to. When had Gavin spoken considerable amounts of German? Well, he supposed that there had been that time during the campaign, when their characters had been taking watch, and— 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. Are we gonna talk about that?” Ema frowned at him. “You… okay?” 

Apollo tried his best to clear the memory from his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, but I’m fine.” His eyes drifted back to the empty horizon and glared at the darkness. “You don’t think they’re talking about me, do you?” The thought made him a little… well, _irritated._ They didn’t need to worry about him. They certainly didn’t need to _gossip_ about him.

“I mean, maybe. Gavin’s not really a gossip, though. Surprisingly.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “If they are, they’re just worried about you. Or hey, maybe they’re discussing normal things. I mean, it’s not our business, right?” 

“But _why_ are they talking to one another?” Apollo bemoaned, again. 

It was weird. Athena and Gavin were from two radically different parts of his life, and it felt weird to have them… _interacting_. Granted, they had met once before—on a case, no less—but it had only been for a moment, and the case hadn’t developed into anything grander.  

When he saw Gavin’s face, glimmering and smug and awful, he was reminded of two years ago: of forged aces, of salty noodles, of really bad rock music. He was reminded of Kristoph. 

When he saw Athena’s face, bright and hot and loud, he was reminded of one year ago: of crooked yokai, of falling rubble, of bloodied stars. He was reminded of Clay, and of pain—of soul-strangling, mind-splintering pain, pain, _pain_.

Both sights made his heart burn. It was unfair to both of them, he knew, but it was too _hard_ —especially when he saw them chittering with one another. He wondered if Gavin knew about Athena’s trials, and about what she had been through as a child—about what Apollo had _done_ to her. And he wondered if Athena knew anything about Gavin’s brother, about how Kristoph had broken and betrayed Apollo, Mr. Wright, and Klavier alike.

He doubted it. The one link connecting all of the events was Apollo himself, and he hadn’t uttered a word. Mr. Wright too, perhaps—but he didn’t like talking about those seven years all that much, and Apollo doubted he’d ever open up about them.

“It would be unfair of you to not let them be friends,” Ema said, quietly. 

He didn’t understand what she meant by that. That wasn’t what he was thinking. 

“What are you afraid of, then?” 

He wasn’t sure of that, either. 

“I mean, aren’t we all already friends?” Ema nudged him in the shoulder with a friendly poke. “We’re all playing a stupid game together. You wouldn’t do that with people who you’re _not_ friends with. I mean—I don’t like the fop very much, but he’s… you know. I don’t _despise_ him, contrary to popular belief.”

Apollo clicked his tongue. “I’m not getting the point you’re trying to make.” 

“Then I guess I wouldn’t make a very good lawyer,” Ema said with a smile. For some reason, Apollo felt his own lips twitch upwards at the sight. “I guess my main point is that, even though we’re all friends… you still kinda view everybody as _coworkers_. And that’s fine—in business situations. It wouldn’t be very professional if we were all chummy during an actual case.” She tilted her head at him, and her messy bangs fell into her face. “But eleven-fifty-nine on a Friday night, after playing seven hours of _Dungeons and Dragons_ together? We’re allowed to be friends.” 

Apollo’s mouth went a little dry. “You guys… you guys _are_ my friends. You, Trucy. M-Mr. Wright’s my boss, you have to understand. But Athena is… she’s a little….” 

“She’s your friend,” Ema repeated. “An annoying friend, maybe. More trouble than she’s worth. But a friend nonetheless.” She nodded her head. “Just because you’ve had rough patches in the past doesn’t mean that invalidates your relationship. You can’t think in absolutes. Life doesn’t work in absolutes.” 

Apollo blinked at her. “Do you know—?” 

“I’m with the police, Apollo. Of course I know. Bobby Fulbright was my coworker.” 

He frowned.

“The same thing goes for you and Gavin, too.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Have you even been listening to me? Just because you’ve got some baggage doesn’t mean you can’t _reconcile_ with him. Mr. Wright is best friends with Mr. Edgeworth, isn’t he? And their history is incredibly complicated—more complicated than yours and Gavin’s, definitely.” Ema seemed to think about that one for a while, fiddling with the strap of her bag. “Hmm. Or maybe not. It’s a slim margin, either way.” 

Apollo stared at her for a long, hard while, mouth open and eyes vacant. The cool air made his skin prickle with gooseflesh. 

“What are you suggesting?”  

Ema locked eyes with him, meeting his challenge. The arrogant smirk returned to her face. “I don’t know—your personal life doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Listen, I’m not sure if—” 

“But Gavin _likes_ you, Apollo. He really does.” Ema’s face chilled stone cold, and Apollo found himself needing to take a step back. He couldn’t remember a time he had seen her so… serious. “I don’t know jack shit about Cykes, but I can talk about Gavin. It’s obvious when he doesn’t like people—he gets all… weird. Distant. I know from experience, because he doesn’t like _me_. But I’ve spent enough time with him to notice how he acts around people he actually enjoys.”  

She leaned in close and adjusted her glasses. Examining him _scientifically_ , he thought. “You’re one of the few people he’s genuinely happy to talk to. If I had to hypothesize, I’d say he’s only coming to these dumb sessions because _you’re_ here, and he wants to spend more time with _you_. Become your, you know, _friend_.” 

“Friend?” Apollo spat, like the word was toxic. He suspected Gavin was showing up for him, yeah—though he hadn’t really been able to figure out… well, _why_. He had assumed Gavin felt like he owed Apollo some sort of… favor, maybe.

Ema pushed her glasses up so they rested on the top of her head like usual. “It’s only a hypothesis. I need to gather more data in order to truly confirm it.” She puffed out her cheeks. “But I think I’m right. You know, when we first arrived earlier today, he wouldn’t shut up about his grand plan to fool you into giving him your number.” 

Number? Yeah… friends had each other’s numbers, didn’t they? 

“He—he didn’t ask me for my number,” Apollo admitted. 

“No? Must’ve slipped his mind.” Ema looked like she was losing interest in the conversation, and fast—her grumpy expression had returned, and her hand was inching down her bag strap towards her Snackoos. “Maybe Cykes distracted him.” 

She probably had. She was definitely louder than Apollo was.  

That kind of pissed him off. 

“I’m going,” he finally said, clenching his teeth. He moved by Ema, over to the bike racks stationed outside of the Wright Anything Agency building. 

“Home?” 

“No.” Apollo undid his lock and was quick to mount the bike. He looked up at Ema with a full gaze, accompanied by the tiniest of smirks. “They have to be walking around the block, right? They parked here, after all.” 

“I mean,” Ema said, “I guess. Why?” 

“He wanted my number,” Apollo answered, and then put his feet to the pedals. He rode right past Ema, making her lab coat sway in the breeze he kicked up. “Thanks for the tip, Ema!” 

As he biked into the night, he heard her call out behind him: “Be safe out there, Justice! Careful not to lose your way!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Ema wasn’t in this fic, my life would be 1000000x easier. But she’s kind of my favorite, so... I would be sad without her here!  
> So, uh, school starts tomorrow. I’m not sure how it’s going to affect my update schedule. I would like to maintain it, but I’m not sure how tough the work load is going to be (that’s the main reason I decided to post this chapter now, in case I don’t make the deadline next week). I promise to try my best!  
> To those of you going back to school soon, too: good luck! May your next semester be fun and fruitful.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

Apollo had found Gavin and Athena a block down the street. When he stopped his bike next to them, he feigned innocence regarding his true intentions, saying that he lived in that direction (which was only a partial lie—he knew a shorter route through parks, but it was the correct way by surface streets). He had manipulated the conversation into one about their campaign, and then smoothly said: “Oh, Prosecutor Gavin. Maybe we should exchange numbers, you know? So we don’t have to rely on chance meetings at the courthouse in order to communicate.” 

He had never seen Gavin smile quite so _stupidly_. 

Apollo slept soundly that night. Unfortunately, he only did so for a handful of hours, before his alarm clock beeped at him to prepare for the day to come. He showered and dressed lazily, and arrived at the courthouse minutes before the trial was supposed to begin. Athena scolded him for it. 

He didn’t feel that guilty, though, considering it wasn’t _his_ case. And he was glad for that: Elan Crawlnober was a troublesome client, having lied about his presence at the second crime scene. Apparently, the burglary that occurred at the bar had happened earlier in the afternoon than the police were led to believe, and Crawlnober had time to move locations.  

“But the fingerprints on the dagger don’t make any sense,” Athena said, gesturing to the papers spread out on the desk in front of her. “Crawlnober has his own personal knife that he always carries with him. Why go through the trouble of finding another knife to kill Do’Urben, rather than using the one that was in his back pocket?” 

“Surely you know the reason for that, Cykes-dono,” Prosecutor Blackquill said from the other side of the courtroom. He was especially intimidating today—tall, broad, with bags under his eyes and a smirk riding high on his pale lips. “What criminal wants to be connected to his crime? He staged an entire elaborate robbery charade to make the police lose sight of the murder.” 

“But Do’Urben attacked _him_ , first!” Athena slammed a hand on the desk in accent to her words. “If that was the case, why wouldn’t he use the knife he already had on his person to defend himself? Where did this second knife come from? Maybe… maybe there was somebody else at the crime scene?” 

“Poppycock! There was nobody else on the surveillance footage. You don’t mean to suggest—“

Blackquill was cut off by a song.

“ _Sugar, sugar… oh that night in your embrace…._ ”

Well, the lyrics weren’t actually said aloud. Apollo sang them in his mind, overlaid on top of the jangly chiptune that was his phone’s ringtone.  

His really-quite-astronomically- _loud_ ringtone. 

Blackquill’s eyes glinted, and—oh, god, if looks could kill. Apollo squeaked at the sight. 

“Justice-dono,” he growled. “You will _silence_ that contraption of yours immediately.” 

_Contraption_. Apollo hoped he knew what a phone was. 

“Yes, Mr. Justice,” the Judge said from his perch overlooking the courtroom. “Please remember to silence your cell phone before entering the courtroom.” 

“ _Apollo_!” Athena hissed from his side, teeth clenched together. “You’re making me look bad!” 

“S-sorry, sorry!” he said, fumbling for the phone in his pocket. He swiped to ignore the call, but not before recognizing the name and bleary twelve-AM selfie of one Klavier Gavin.  

He didn’t know who else he had been expecting. 

When they exchanged numbers, Gavin had demanded that they take photos of one another for each other’s contact registers. His face on the LED screen was cheery—and his teeth were more exposed than they were in the press images and fanzines Apollo had seen him in. The expression made him look younger, and more approachable. More… cute, maybe. 

Just as he was thinking about why the hell his mind went to the word _cute_ , his phone started ringing at the same ear-splitting volume again. And, once more, Gavin’s bright, smiling face was there to greet him. 

“Mr. Justice,” the Judge repeated, his gray brow furrowing. “You may step out of the courtroom to take the call, if need be. I’m sure Ms. Cykes can manage by herself for a few minutes.” 

Athena and Widget both gave Apollo a death glare that stated, clear-as-day, “Don’t you _dare_.” 

Apollo ignored the call again and quickly set his ringer to silent.  

“Th-that won’t be necessary, Your Honor,” he said, trying to subdue the blush rising on his cheeks. “I-it’s not that important.” 

“Are you sure? You look flushed.” 

“I-I’m _fine_! Uh, I’m just going to, erm, respond with a… text.” 

The Judge nodded his head. “That is quite all right. I understand that personal affairs sometimes can’t be avoided. Why, just the other day, my grandson was participating in his school’s science fair! He kept sending me pictures of how the contest was going, and my phone kept beeping… but I couldn’t figure out how to turn the volume off! Oho, Ms. von Karma was _quite_ displeased….” 

As the Judge rambled, Apollo swiped his phone unlocked and began work on composing a text message. 

_I’m in court right now. I’ll call you later_ _._  

Literal seconds after he hit send, his phone buzzed. 

_omg i completely spaced!!!!_ _dont worry u dont have to call me. its not important_  

Okay, Apollo breathed. Then he wouldn’t. 

Just as he was about to slip his phone away, there was another buzz. 

_i was just wondering if we were planning on meeting next friday???_  

Another buzz. Oh god, Gavin was one of _those_. 

_for the campaign u kno_

Buzz.  

_just text me back when you have time! <3_

Apollo tapped another response. The Judge was still blathering away, and he could feel both Athena and Prosecutor Blackquill boring holes into his head with their glares. He ignored them.

_I don’t know, probably. We just met yesterday. Do you really need to clear your schedule that far in advance?_  

Buzzes. Six consecutive buzzes, one right after the other. 

_NO_

_i’m always free for you herr forehead ;))_  

_i think i might’ve used that line already………_

_WAIT u just said you were in court! i didn’t mean to Distract you_

_text me when ur finished!_ _!!!!!_

_break a leg! tho i’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that_  

Apollo didn’t understand why Gavin couldn’t have sent those all in the same message. Also, he wished he would pick whether to use “you” or “u” and _stick with it_.

“Are you done?” Athena asked, the corners of her eyelids twitching. It looked like she was about to strangle him. 

“If the defense is done wasting the court’s time,” Prosecutor Blackquill said, voice low, “shall we return to the matter at hand? As in, the _murder_?” 

Apollo slipped his phone into his back pocket and nodded. He felt the need to reach up and scratch his hair, as if the motion would help make the embarrassment flooding his veins dissipate.  

“I’m fine!” he said, and tried his best to squelch the smile blossoming on his face. 

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, the trial didn’t last as long as Apollo had suspected. One of the prime witnesses—the miss Arilyn Moonsword—let slip that she had heard the struggle take place at a different time than assumed by the court. 

“So Crawlnober really did try to defend himself from Do’Urben,” Athena muttered as she and Apollo stepped out of the courthouse and into the cool, springtime breeze. She pulled her jacket on tight. “Hmm. We could’ve gotten him off on self-defense charges, but the fact that Moonsword had her own motivations to kill him—and went through with it… ugh. Why didn’t he tell me the truth in the first place?!” 

“Well, there’s a reason,” Apollo said, straightening his tie. After a long day of courtroom drama, he always felt a little ruffled. Sweaty, dirty, grumpy—he didn’t feel presentable, to say the least. “He did _rob_ somebody. And the only reason Drizzt attacked him was because he had snuffed him in the past, too. He wanted to hide his other crimes.” 

“But murder is a lot worse than robbery!” Athena clutched her fists at her sides. Around her neck, Widget was a gloomy shade of watercolor blue. “I wish there was more we could’ve done for him. After all of that, he’s still going to jail… even though he was stealing from jerks to begin with.” 

“Robin Hood was still guilty,” Apollo said, “even if he had good intentions.” 

Athena bit her lip. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but her words weren’t cooperating.  

When they reached the bottom of the courthouse steps, Athena froze in place and cast her gaze to the cement beneath her shoes. Apollo stopped beside her. 

“You did really well,” he offered, trying to win her back with a smile. It made his face ache. “I-I mean, not everybody you defend is going to be innocent, right? Everybody has their, uh, secrets. Y-you’ve read Mr. Wright’s old case files, right? Some of the stuff he had to deal with… was crazy!” 

Widget remained blue. 

Okay, Apollo _really_ wasn’t any good at this whole “comforting” thing. 

He coughed and then started inspecting his fingernails. A fine line of dirt had developed beneath them from all of his banging on dirty courtroom desks. He wondered how often they were cleaned…. 

With awkwardness still palpable, Apollo reached into his pocket to fiddle with his phone, just to make it seem like he had something to busy himself with. He only had one unread text message—from Klavier Gavin, containing several dozen emojis that probably spelled out a cryptic hidden message if he had the patience to decipher it. Which he didn’t. 

Oh, that’s right. He was supposed to text Gavin when he was done with the trial, wasn’t he? He didn’t see the need, now that Gavin had asked about what he wanted. But maybe there was something else he wanted to talk about…?

At the sight of his phone, Athena immediately perked up. “Hey. What was all of that about, earlier?”

“H-huh? Oh.” Apollo paused the swiping of his fingers. “It was nothing! It was just… uh, a phone call. From a friend.” 

She narrowed her eyes. 

“…From Prosecutor Gavin,” he clarified. 

Recognition sparked to life on Athena’s face. “ _Oh_. Of course it was.” She smiled teasingly. “No flirting in the courtroom, Apollo! Do that on your own time!” 

“F-flirting?” he repeated, scandalized. “Excuse me? He was asking about the campaign, that’s all.” 

“They say there’s nothing’s sexier than _Dungeons and Dragons_.” 

“You want to lecture _me_ about flirting? What was with you two taking a romantic walk through the park last night, huh?” He scrunched his nose. Yeah—even when he had biked to give Gavin his number, he hadn’t had the guts to ask.

Athena gawked at him. “What? Romantic? It wasn’t _romantic_ at all! He’s like, thirty-five—that’s disgusting!” 

Apollo blinked. From Athena’s posture—raw, angry, with tense muscles in her forearms and fingers—he got the distinct impression that she was telling the truth.  

“…Wait, thirty-five? You realize he’s only two years older than me, right—?” 

“Oh my god, Apollo—I would never go behind your back like that! You really think that little of me?” Athena ran her fingers through her hair and huffed out a terse breath. “And here I was, trying to look out for you! Ugh, this is what I get for being nice…!” 

Look out for him?  

“So you _were_ talking about me,” he accused, pointing an outstretched finger at her. Just like he and Ema had suspected! Apollo didn’t _need_ their concern—and if they really were worried, why didn’t they come to him? Granted, he didn’t want to talk about it, but…. 

“No duh,” Athena said. “I mean, didn’t you hear the way he was talking about you? You weren’t curious at—”

In the middle of her sentence, Athena’s face froze over, and her words drew to a sudden halt. Apollo felt a familiar tug from the bracelet around his wrist.  

His heart tightened in his chest.

“I-it wasn’t anything important,” she went on. “Uh, just… forget about it.”

_Pang_.

The feeling of knowing Athena was blatantly hiding something from him didn’t bring back good memories. 

“Athena,” he said, figuring that was explanation enough. 

“N-no, it’s nothing,” Athena said, fanning a hand in front of her face. “It’s, uh… it’s not that big of a deal, and I probably shouldn’t tell you? That wouldn’t be a good idea? No? I don’t think? Ahaha… ha?” 

“ _We’ve said too much!_ ” Widget cried. 

Apollo advanced on her, thick eyebrows tied together and teeth gritted. “Did he say something about me?” he asked. He remembered what Ema had said: _They were speaking German. That’s_ _kinda weird, don’tcha think?_

“Well, uh, you know. Just good things.” 

His bracelet nipped him. 

“Did he insult me?” Apollo tried coaxing. He searched Athena’s face, her hands, her muscles for any kind of twitch. 

Athena took a step back. “No, of course not!” 

“Then why were you two talking in German? You wanted to be secretive, didn’t you?” 

“K-kind of?” 

“Athena.” 

“Okay, okay! Jeez! Stop looking at me like that!” She hid her face behind her hands to shield herself from his penetrating gaze. “I just wanted to ask him about you, you know? I thought something was up! His voice was so loud—you know, not _loud_ , but… noisy. I thought that was weird, so I wanted to investigate.” 

Apollo stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. Athena had mentioned that Gavin’s voice was full of discord a few weeks ago, too, when they had crossed paths at the police station. Was the cause of the discord—him?

But _why_? 

“He kept calling you things in German,” Athena said, voice soft. “Nice things, I guess, but… _weird_ things. So I, err, asked him about it.” 

“…And?” Apollo prompted. 

“He, ah.” She frowned. “He wasn’t very straight-forward with me. Admittedly, I wanted to use my Mood Matrix on him, but you interrupted us.” She flicked her crescent earring in thought. “Soon as you left, he friggin’ _booked_ it. Like, holy crap, that pretty-boy can _run_. So I didn’t really get the chance.” 

She seemed to be telling the truth, but Apollo’s bracelet was still beating in time to his heart.

“If that’s the whole truth,” he said, “then why are you still fidgety?” 

“I don’t know! I guess it’s… well, erm. I have my suspicions on ‘why’ he was acting the way he was. But I don’t think I should share them with you.” 

Apollo raised his eyebrows. 

“At least, not yet. I don’t want to jump to any conclusions without proper evidence.” She avoided his gaze.

Despite the pain in his wrist, Apollo’s anger waned. Athena was technically hiding something from him—but it was something he didn’t have the right to know. It was a personal matter, either between her and Gavin, or between Gavin and himself.

Now he felt a little bad for being so quick to jump on her. 

“…Okay.” 

He worried his fingers against the screen of his phone before clicking it on. He tapped out a message: _Trial’s over. We won, if you were curious. Anyway, was there something else you wanted to ask me?_  

Athena watched his fingers move with intense interest. He felt a little self-conscious—what, was he typing weird or something? 

When the reply arrived, no more than five seconds later, she smiled. Not a teasing one, either: it was soft.

_congratulations herr forehead!!!! give my love to f. cykes too!_  

_< 333333_

“He says congratulations,” Apollo said, looking up at Athena. 

“Heh, heh. To me? Yeah, sure.” She set her hands on her hips. “Well, what now? Are you going back to the office?” 

He typed a message out to Gavin and responded to Athena at the same time. 

_Thanks. And I did._  

“I guess so,” he said. 

Athena snuck a glance at the screen. “Ten bucks,” she grinned, “that he invites you out to a victory dinner.” 

“Hah. Yeah, right.” Apollo rolled his eyes. Gavin most assuredly had better things to do on a Saturday night. He had done the dinner invitation shtick before, but only offhandedly. He wouldn’t try it now—making Apollo fidgety probably wasn’t as much fun through text message. 

His phone vibrated. 

_how about we go out to dinner to celebrate your victory? this is “another time” isn’t it? ;)_

Apollo gaped. 

“Haha, told you!” Athena gave him a playful knock with her shoulder. “Woo-hoo! Pay up, loser!” 

“H-hold on for a second,” Apollo said, his palms suddenly very, very clammy. He rubbed them on his pants leg. “He… he’s inviting _us_ out to dinner, right? To celebrate _our_ victory. Right?” 

“What else would it be? What—did you think he was asking you on a _date_?” 

The word made Apollo want to scream. And scream he did. 

“ _No_!” His volume drew the attention of all of the other law officials wandering their way down the courthouse steps.  

“Oh my god, Apollo.” Athena hid her growing laughter behind her knuckles. “There’s no need to get so worked up about it. I already kinda knew. Your secret is—” 

“ _Secret_?” he cried. “What _secret_? There is no _secret_! I’m fine! I do not—he doesn’t—that’s ridiculous—it’s slander—I mean— _my_ secret? I think you mean _your_ secret!”  

She blinked at him. 

“Th-that’s right!” He would’ve slammed his fists down on the desk if he had been in court; but alas, all he could do was punch emptily at the air. “You’re the one who brought up the whole concept of a date! What if—what if _you’re_ the one that wants to go on a date with him? That has to be it! I mean, _I_ certainly don’t! Why would I? I have no motive! You—you were trying to play me, weren’t you? Trying to use me to cover up your own crime!” His voice was getting awfully hoarse. “Well, I won’t let you get away with it! I just turned this whole case on its head! You can’t hide the truth from Justice!” 

“Apollo,” Athena said, her lips twitching, “people are staring.” 

“Let them stare! I’ve got nothing to hide!” 

When his phone buzzed for the third time, he nearly leapt straight out of his clothes.  

“Sure you don’t, buddy.” 

Apollo dismissed her and instead read the newest message.

_athena can come if she wants. is f. magician with you too?? it can be my treat!_  

Bzzt. 

_assuming you’re all not Busy_   _ofc_

Apollo stared at the phone, feeling a bead of sweat cluster at the base of his neck and roll down his undershirt. Wait, no, okay, calm down—see, it wasn’t a date! Gavin had meant to invite Athena after all. 

Though, from the way it was phrased, it sounded like she had been an afterthought. So had he invited Apollo out… alone? Just the two of them? Until he realized it was a bad idea?  

Oh god, Apollo had _no idea_ what to think. It was even worse communicating through text, when he couldn’t see the other party’s face. At least if Gavin were in front of him, he would be able to tell when he was bluffing for show—his bracelet would tighten.  

“I’m ‘busy,’” Athena said, air-quotes around the word _busy_. “Tell him I have stuff to do! Which, you know, is actually kinda true. So go for it!” 

“What do you mean, _go for it_? There’s nothing to go for!” And he was telling the truth! Maybe getting to know Gavin better would be nice—like how he and Ema had discussed the previous night—but, “date.”

He didn’t like the word “date.”

“Date” implied something… intimate, didn’t it? Romantic? _Sexual_? 

…He felt faint. His shirt was starting to dampen with the liters-worth of perspiration rolling off of him.

“Are you kidding me right now? Apollo, you look like a tomato. A sweaty, sweaty tomato.” 

“ _Listen_ ,” Apollo hissed, wheedling his voice down to a whisper (not that it mattered: he had been so loud earlier, people were still gawping at them). “You have it all wrong. Prosecutor Gavin and I—we’ve been through a lot together. And we’re courtroom rivals! It’s not… don’t use the word ‘date.’ It wouldn’t be a _date_.” 

“Okaaay.”

Apollo got the feeling that his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. 

“It’s true! I don’t feel that way about him!” 

Right? 

…Of course, _right_! What was he thinking? He was barely _friends_ with Klavier Gavin, let alone something more. It was just… hard, with Gavin, to distinguish his natural personality from all of his acting. Sometimes it was enough to fool Apollo; but he knew that was only Gavin being Gavin. There was no force behind Gavin’s words, no meat on them. He was all show, all glimmer.  

A part of Apollo wanted to scrub that glimmer off to get to the real Klavier Gavin underneath. He had wanted to ever since the Misham trial, but he had never gotten the chance (or worked up the courage to make his _own_ chance). But his reasons for that weren’t romantic—of course not! He was concerned about him because he was a human being with _empathy_. You didn’t need to be in love with somebody to care about them. 

“ _Love_ is a pretty strong word, Apollo,” Athena warned. 

Apollo eeped. Had—had he said that out loud? 

“But I also think it’s one people are too afraid to use. For example—I love you!” 

“…Huh?”

“And I love Mr. Wright and Trucy, too! You guys are my family!” She pounded a fist into her palm. “So if you have strong feelings, Apollo, go for it! You can’t let emotions wander away from you—you gotta draw a line in the sand! You gotta make a statement! You gotta look inside yourself and say, ‘What am I willing to put up with today? Not—friggin’—this!’” 

“…Are you going somewhere with this, or—?” 

“Respond to him already!” 

Apollo shuddered and muttered a quiet _yeesh_ under his breath.

Now, this was awkward: what was he actually going to say in _response_? Should he agree? Should he be polite, or on-guard? What would Gavin naturally expect of him? What did he _want_ Apollo to do? 

Oh, his brain hurt. He was pretty sure texting your friend wasn’t supposed to cause this much emotional anxiety. 

_Athena’s busy. Should I invite Trucy? She’s not with us right now, but she might want to come._  

There—shifting the choice over to the other party. A classic. Way to play it safe, Justice. 

Gavin didn’t respond right away, and Apollo was left to stand in awkward silence next to Athena. She watched him with an all-too smug smile on her face. 

“I have somewhere to be, but I can hang out for a little while. Should we start heading back to the office?” she asked him. 

Apollo frowned at his phone. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” They couldn’t stand around all night. 

The two of them took off down the street, Apollo fiddling with his phone all the while. Even though Athena had a car, she preferred not to drive it to the courthouse—parking was expensive, and the Wright Anything Agency was in walking distance, anyway.

Sunset shed golden light over the blacktop. It was a nice day—cool, even for this time of year. The weather report had said— 

His phone buzzed. Oh, thank _god_. 

_of course! the more the merrier!!_  

_are you at the courthouse? do u need me to pick you up?_  

_oh and where are we going?_??

Apollo tapped a speedy response. 

_I’m walking back to the office rn._   

Of course Gavin had said Trucy should come—why shouldn’t she be able to? It’s not like he was going to say, “Ugh _,_ do we really have to invite _her_?” Apollo had dug his own grave on that one. 

But where should they go to eat? Preferably somewhere he could walk to. He didn’t want to deal with Gavin’s motorbike, if he opted to bring it… and he didn’t suspect that driving in one of Gavin’s most likely ridiculously-expensive luxury cars would be a good option, either. 

_I think I know a place. Meet me at the office around 6?_  

This time, the response was instantaneous.  

_ja bb, you got it!!!!!_

He only wiped the stupid smile off his face when he caught Athena snickering at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember how this was supposed to be a klapollo fic?
> 
> Text messages are weird. I played around with the formatting a little, but ultimately decided to go for a minimalist approach. Or, you know... a lazy approach.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate all of the comments and kudos this fic has received. I know it's a silly premise and I'm certainly not the best writer on the planet, but all of your support keeps me going and makes me so, so happy. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart!


	12. Chapter 12

Trucy was ecstatic when Apollo invited her to join him and Gavin for dinner. Admittedly, a tiny part of Apollo—a tiny, microscopic, itsy-bitsy part of Apollo—wanted her to say that she had prior plans. 

“Any prior plans can wait!” Trucy said, clapping her hands in glee. “Dinner with Prosecutor Gavin! That’s so cool! I mean, we’ve been seeing him every week, but dinner is so much more _intimate_! Isn’t it, Polly? Hey, look at that: you’re even blushing!” 

Mr. Wright looked up from the papers scattered across his desk. “Be back by ten,” he said as an order. 

“I’m seventeen, Daddy! Don’t you think ten is a little early?” 

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” 

“I highly doubt we’re going to be out at dinner for four hours,” Apollo muttered. At least, he hoped not. “I was just planning on taking him—us, I mean—to Eldoon’s Noodles. It won’t take much time at all.” 

Mr. Wright shrugged and returned to inspecting whatever file was in front of him. Apollo wondered if it was something important, or something related to their _Dungeons and Dragons_ campaign. Mr. Wright couldn’t have taken on any new cases—his trip to Khura’in was just around the corner. 

“Ten,” he said again, and Apollo felt his eyebrow twitch involuntarily. 

A knock at the door arrived at six o’clock on the dot. Interesting—Apollo could’ve sworn he heard a motorcycle roar down the road near five-thirty. Surely Gavin couldn’t have been mulling around outside their office all that time, though. He wasn’t _that_ awkward.

“Herr Forehead!” Prosecutor Gavin greeted as soon as Apollo opened the door, a smile the size of Sirius shining bright on his face. He clapped Apollo firmly on the shoulders and gave him a shake. “Congratulations on your victory! Though I didn’t think for a second that you wouldn’t win.” 

“Th—an—ks,” Apollo managed through the shaking. He stepped out of arm’s reach as soon as Gavin let go. “Uh, Athena would’ve come, but she already went home for the night. She said she was… busy.” 

He heard Mr. Wright snort. 

“So you get me instead!” Trucy said, materializing next to Apollo. She wrapped Gavin in a big, friendly hug. “It’s nice to see you again, Prosecutor Gavin! Even though we just saw you yesterday.” 

Gavin gave her a good-natured pat-on-the-back. “You can never spend too much time with friends, ja?” He hummed to himself, then took a sly glance inside the office. “So is it just the three of us, or…?” 

“Just the three of us,” Apollo said quickly. Oh, god—he didn’t want Mr. Wright inviting himself along. Knowing the man and how suspicious he had been of Apollo’s quote-unquote-Athena’s-words-and-not-his “date” to begin with, he would leap at the opportunity if Gavin were the one to suggest it. 

“Bring me back something good,” Mr. Wright called. Apollo sensed a note of passive-aggression lodged somewhere in his voice. “By ten o’clock, please.”

Before Prosecutor Gavin could inquire, Apollo pushed him and Trucy out of the office and slammed the door shut behind them. 

“Let’s go,” he said, and stormed off down the hallway. 

 

* * *

 

“You eat here a lot, then?” Prosecutor Gavin asked, eyeing the noodle stand from afar. Despite it being dinnertime, there wasn’t a crowd gathered around Eldoon’s Noodles—just a couple of families and their kids, maybe a few people who looked like couples. Eldoon had set up tables near his food stand since the doctor’s office next door closed: a few rickety, splinter-infested picnic benches that had seen way better days, one of which the group of three was seated at. Apollo and Trucy were on one side, Apollo straddling his legs over the bench as he readied to get up, and Klavier on the other. 

“All the time!” Trucy said with a smile. “Daddy and I have eaten here for years! And now Polly’s adapted it into his diet, too!” 

“Not by choice,” Apollo said. “Though I think if I were to stop eating it now, the sudden lack of sodium in my diet would kill me.” 

Gavin addressed Apollo in particular. “I’m sure Herr Eldoon is still thankful for you finding and rescuing his stand, ja?” A somewhat perturbed expression crossed over his face. “Hmm. I wonder if health code laws say anything about serving food out of a stand somebody was killed in….” 

“Not killed _in_ ,” Apollo corrected. “Just near.” 

“That makes a difference?” 

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.” 

“Nein, nein! I’m sure the noodles are delicious, all the same.” Gavin smiled, perhaps in an attempt to show that he didn’t mean any harm. “I’m partial to _shio_ ramen to begin with, so I’m sure I’ll enjoy this very much.” 

“Mr. Eldoon has other soups on the menu, but they all kind of taste like _shio_ ,” Trucy said. She swung her legs under the table, making the whole thing creak and rock unsteadily. “So ordering the _shio_ is like, double the salt! It’s intense! Even I can’t stomach it. Usually I just order the—ahem, ‘ _miso_.’ With extra pork!” 

Prosecutor Gavin knitted his brows together. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be able to manage. I hope.” 

Gavin was wearing a very casual outfit compared to his usual courtroom getup. He had on a pair of ratty blue jeans, probably purchased with the rips pre-torn, and a gray hoodie with the logo of a European band Apollo had a vague knowledge of (he thought he remembered seeing them perform at Eurovision the previous year, but he could’ve been wrong—it was hard to remember anything about that night other than Athena’s totally-not-drunken shouting). His long hair was tied back in a bun, and despite it being dark outside, he had a pair of sunglasses pulled up over his nose. 

Maybe he was trying to hide from the paparazzi.

Gavin caught him staring. Apollo let out a quiet _ack_ and quickly turned back towards the noodle stand.  

“Are you wondering about my attire, Herr Forehead?” he purred, propping his head up on his knuckle. “I had the day off. I spent the whole afternoon lazing around, so I didn’t have the… strength, you could say, to bother with dolling myself up for this date of ours.”

“Not a date,” Apollo said under his breath.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“I think you look great!” Trucy cut in. “It’s a very _domestic_ look! Ratty jeans, messy bun, boyfriend sweatshirt—people go nuts over that stuff!”  

Gavin looked down at himself. “You think so?” he asked, poking at his stomach. “Maybe. Most people don’t enjoy seeing this side of celebrities, though.” 

“Why not? It makes them seem so much more human!” Trucy reached up to pull at the edge of her top hat, sheepishly “It makes me feel better about myself, too. Like… look, somebody as cool as Prosecutor Gavin sleeps in late on Saturdays and dresses like a slob, too! Maybe I’m not such a hot mess after all.” 

Apollo knew she was just trying to be friendly, but her words made Gavin wince. 

“Slob?” He tugged at the stained sleeves of his sweatshirt. Trucy was right—it _was_ a little baggy on him, like he was borrowing it from a larger boyfriend. 

Apollo hoped that was just the style. 

“Ach, I do feel underdressed,” Gavin admitted. “With Herr Forehead in his stellar suit and Fräulein Magician in her charismatic costume—perhaps I should’ve foreseen this circumstance.” 

“You look fine,” Apollo said. “I mean, you’re fine. You look _normal_ , and that’s okay.” He tugged at his own tie, trying to loosen it a little. “If anything, I wish I was dressed like you. I don’t want to get this suit dirty.” 

“Surely it’s not your only one?” Gavin asked. “Considering how often you wear it.” 

“Order number four, your meal is ready,” called a voice from the noodle stand, and thank goodness for that. Apollo leapt to his feet before either Gavin or Trucy could beat him to the punch.  

The bowls of noodles were blazing hot, but nothing Apollo couldn’t manage. He held two in either hand and balanced the other on his forearm with immense expertise. He was able to bring all of them back to the table and set them down without spilling so much as a drop. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Apollo noticed Gavin marveling at him. He frowned out of reflex.  

“What? Did you never work as a waiter when you were young?”  

Prosecutor Gavin half-grimaced at that, and he pushed a few bangs out of his eyes. Anxious. He did that when he was anxious. “Ach, nein. I never had the experience. I became a prosecutor when I turned seventeen—I didn’t really do a lot of… normal jobs, before then.” 

Apollo rolled his eyes and took a seat next to Trucy. She, meanwhile, pulled apart her chopsticks, let out a loud, “Let’s eat!” and immediately went to town on her noodles. 

“You were a waiter, then?” 

“Huh?” Apollo snapped his chopsticks in two. “Yeah, of course. I worked at the same southeast-Asian restaurant all through high school, and into college. Lots of _magatah'man_ buns and yak milk, you know.” He looked down at his food: he had ordered whatever Eldoon qualified as _shoyu_ ramen, which was just normal broth mixed in with approximately six cups of soy sauce. It was a heart attack in a bowl. 

And it was _delicious_.

“I also worked as a clerk at a department store during law school, when I really needed the money,” he continued, poking at a floating piece of pork. “And then I was an intern.” 

The _where_ was implied. 

“I see,” Prosecutor Gavin said, nodding his head. He seemed utterly enthralled by Apollo’s words, even craning himself over the table to better hear him. Surely he wasn’t _that_ interesting. “You must’ve been so busy! You graduated early, and you worked multiple jobs on the side? How’d you manage?” 

“I had—” 

Clay, he was going to say. He had Clay to help him through the rough patches in his life. Clay had been the only person there who _wanted_ to see Apollo succeed. But the name got stuck in his throat, and suddenly, his bowl looked a lot less appealing. 

Trucy glanced up at him, slurping up noodles in the process. 

“—My friends,” Apollo finally decided, figuring that was vague yet informative enough to prevent any further questions. 

Gavin didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. He had instead started to focus on his meal, picking idly at the garnishes. 

“That’s very impressive,” he said as he tried to pick up a hard-boiled egg—and failed, miserably. It made a plopping noise as it fell back into the broth. 

Apollo smiled in spite of himself. “So says the man who became a prosecutor at age seventeen.” 

“Yes, but I had connections. I had the money to study abroad. Everything you have, you had to work for.” He was having an incredibly difficult time with the egg. He opted for just _stabbing_ the poor thing with one of his chopsticks, but when he lifted it from the broth, its weight made it slide off the stick and back into the soup. “Ach, _scheiße_ ….” 

Apollo stifled his laughter with a mouthful of pork. He could see Trucy’s shoulders shaking, too.  

“I-I’m sure being an international rock ‘n’ roll sensation isn’t the easiest job in the world, either,” Apollo said, swallowing.

“Ja, well. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Gavin was growing more and more frustrated with each attempt, and subsequent failure, to pick up the egg. His frown deepened, and his accent was getting thicker. “It’s all traveling, all paparazzi, all people who only know your name. Ach, _dieses Ei wird der Tod von mir sein_ ….” 

Apollo watched Gavin stab the egg again… and again, and again—until there wasn’t really an egg left, only yolk and sadness dissolving into the scalding-hot soup. Eventually, Gavin released a long, heavy sigh, and mumbled: “Are there forks?”  

Apollo snorted so hard, noodles threatened to erupt out his nose. He covered his face and nodded furiously. “I-I’ll go get you one,” he offered, and rose to his feet. 

“There’s no need to be so mean about it,” Gavin whined. 

As Apollo went to retrieve some silverware, he used the opportunity to let his laughter cool. He just—he had imagined Prosecutor Gavin as a lot more, well… _composed_. Seeing him in such a casual outfit, complete with him struggling to perform basic tasks: Trucy was right, he did seem awfully _human_. Somehow, even when Apollo had seen him outside of court—like during their _Dungeons and Dragons_ sessions—Gavin remained straight-laced, like he was performing for somebody. It was nice to see him loosen up a little. 

Apollo returned with a fork and handed it off to Gavin. “So, the playboy prosecutor can’t use a pair of chopsticks?” he teased with a light-hearted grin. 

Gavin took the fork and glowered at it, then down at the soup. “It’s quite embarrassing,” he admitted, stabbing the fork into the broth. He spindled noodles around it, like one would when eating a plate of spaghetti. “I’ve traveled all around the world, but… there’s some cultural things I never learned how to master.” 

“It’s really easy!” said Trucy. “I can teach you, if you want!” 

“ _Danke_ , Fräulein Magician, but you’re not the first one to offer. Many people have tried to teach me in the past.”  

Gavin was insanely less composed while eating, too, Apollo noted—but then regretted the thought. It was rude of him to stare. Plus, he bet that eating panged as a point of self-consciousness for most. He recalled browsing through cheap tabloids while standing in line at the grocery mart before, and reading about how _scandalous_ it was that the Beautiful Celebrity of the Week was caught eating a _hamburger_. How _dare_ they. 

Trucy expertly gulped another mouthful of noodles, speaking around them. “’Maw, ‘mrelly?” She swallowed. “I wonder why that is? You’d think that, being a guitar player, it would be easy for you!” 

“You’d think.” 

“I’m guessing you didn’t grow up eating a lot of foreign food,” Apollo said.  

Gavin caught onto his attempt at changing the conversation and smiled at him, gratefully. “Nein, not exactly. I spent most of my childhood in Germany, so I grew up eating mostly… ah, bratwurst.” 

“Germany?” Apollo asked, tilting his head.  

“Did you think the accent was fake?” Gavin’s shoulders shook with unvoiced laughter. “I lived in Germany until I was in high school. I came to the United States and attended Artemis Academy, before returning to Germany to complete my studies. I met my bandmates, passed the bar, became a worldwide sensation… and the rest is history.” 

Apollo tried envisioning the timeline in his head. When Prosecutor Gavin had become a prosecutor… his first trial was against Phoenix Wright, and the famous defense attorney had ended up disbarred. 

“That long, huh….” He hummed. “Why did you end up moving here in the first place?” 

“I wanted to get out of the house.” Gavin picked at his beansprouts, thoughtfully. “My brother was traveling back and forth all of the time, so why couldn’t I?” 

The mention of Kristoph made Apollo’s hair suddenly stick up on end. Trucy, too, flinched, and she lowered her hat to obscure sight of her eyes. 

If Prosecutor Gavin noticed the tension in the air, he didn’t comment on it. “I was too dependent on other people back then, and I decided that I needed to fend for myself.” He met Apollo’s gaze with such sudden intensity, Apollo almost choked. “I didn’t learn English until I was around fourteen, you know.” 

Apollo coughed into his fist. “Fourteen? That late?” He was going to compliment him on how well he was speaking, but… that was twelve years ago, wasn’t it? It would just be weird. 

“Ja. Nobody ever bothered to teach me. My parents taught my brother, expecting him to teach me in turn, I suppose. But he never got around to it.” He tapped his fork against the bright-red rim of his bowl. “When we’d travel here together, I would be so lost... I would try speaking to people, but they’d laugh at my grammar and accent—and Kristoph would tell me to stop making a fool of myself. Just let him do the talking, he would say, and everything would be fine.” 

Apollo’s grip tightened around his chopsticks. He could envision that far too easily. 

“As I grew older, I got sick of relying on him. I wanted to talk with people my age—friends… and pretty people, mostly. He’d scold me for fooling around, and I got tired of it.” He scratched his chin. “Hmm. Once I proved that I could speak English well enough, Kristoph warmed up to the idea. I think a part of him was hurt that I didn’t need him anymore. He… was looking out for his baby brother, at the end of the day.” 

“He was angry that you broke free of his control,” Apollo said, maybe aloud. He wasn’t exactly sure.  

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Herr Forehead.” 

He wasn’t sure Gavin had actually said that, either. 

Gavin stared down into his bowl. “Ach, I apologize. I like talking about myself too much. I'll save it for the interviews, ja?” He smiled, and the absolute _rancid_ plastic stench of it made Apollo shudder.  

He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.

What could he say that wasn’t hypocritical on his part? He _hated_ talking about his own history. He couldn’t fathom why Gavin so easily slipped into thoughts about his past, about his _brother_. Apollo had locked all of the tragic memories of his past deep within himself, with the intent to never revisit them—and that included Kristoph.

That would be his advice for Gavin, if his mouth had been cooperating: forget about Kristoph. Forget about Germany, and focus on the here, the now. Focus on the city bustling around them, with its bloody crimes and its smiling couples and its black smog. Focus on Trucy, and how she had brought her bowl up to her lips to sip the broth. Focus on _Apollo_. 

But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. And instead, Trucy filled the silence in his absence.  

“Don’t apologize about something like that,” she said from around her bowl. Her words were muffled. “Don’t feel like you can’t be yourself around your friends.” 

Gavin’s smile, which had already been melting at the corners, fell completely off of his face.

“Ah? Ah. F-Fräulein Magician,” he chuckled hoarsely, “you’re too kind. But—” 

“Can I call you Klavier?” 

The question caught both Prosecutor Gavin and Apollo off guard. 

“Ach… you may call me anything you desire, Fräulein.” 

That was a skillful way to avoid the actual question, Apollo thought. 

Trucy set her bowl down and slipped her hands onto her hips. “Then no more _Fräulein_! You call everybody Fräulein, and it gets really confusing! I’m your friend, so I deserve special treatment!”  

“J-ja, of course, Fräu—ah.” Gavin bit his lip. Apollo wondered how deep the German honorific system ran, and if Trucy asking to be called by name was a huge faux pas. Or maybe Gavin was weirdly polite to begin with: Apollo could imagine how etiquette might’ve been beaten into him. 

“…Trucy,” he finally managed, his smile returning. “You’re… too nice to me.” 

“Not at all! That’s what friends are for!” She tipped her hat at him and winked. “And you know what _else_ friends are for, Klavier?” 

“Err.”

“They’re for buying you take-out!”

“ _Trucy_ ,” Apollo cut her off, prodding her in the side with his elbow.  

“But we have to bring Daddy something! If I’m not there to supervise, he’ll starve!” 

Then let him starve, Apollo thought. A grown man should be able to fend for himself without his seventeen-year-old daughter babysitting him. 

“Nein—it’s fine, Herr Forehead,” Gavin said with a titter. There it was again, the elusive _titter_. “I’d be happy to buy Herr Wright dinner. You already denied me the pleasure of treating you, even though that’s what this was supposed to… be.” 

“We don’t need charity,” Apollo said.  

“Then why did you agree to have dinner in the first place, I wonder? If you didn’t want a treat?” 

“Because he wanted to see you, dummy!” 

Apollo jabbed Trucy in the gut for a second time, hard enough to make her yelp. “ _We_ ,” he corrected, and—oh god, he was starting to sweat again. Not here, not now, please, god, _no_. “We—all wanted to go out to dinner, and you said you were interested in coming along, s-so… why not? You know?” He reached up to smooth out his hair, and… oh, that wasn’t smooth at all, was it? 

Trucy shook her head at him in disappointment. 

“What’s this? The little defense attorney went out of his way to see _me_?” Gavin leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin on his knuckles, and—oh, he was _way_ too close, what the _heck_! “You were so opposed to dinner the other day. What changed?” 

“Nothing!” Apollo said, scooting down the bench. “I just wanted a little breather, that’s all. And you wanted to catch up, anyway, so I thought….” 

“Relax, Apollo. I’m not cross-examining you. You seem so… stressed.” 

Stressed? He wasn’t stressed. W-what did he have to be stressed about? And— 

“—Apollo?” the man himself said. “I think that’s… the first time I’ve heard you call me by my actual name. Friendlily, anyway.”

“Not the _first_ time,” Trucy said, probably with the intention not to be heard.

The word sounded strange on Gavin’s tongue, thick with his accent. He didn’t think his name could carry so much weight, but when Gavin said it, it sounded heavy. Damp. 

He swallowed.

Gavin grinned, guiltily. “Trucy is right, isn’t she? We’re friends.” His gaze wandered upwards from Apollo’s, presumably towards his broad forehead. “Ach. It’s so difficult not to comment on it, though, when it’s… _staring_ at me.” 

“I’m sorry we can’t all be pretty boys like you,” Apollo murmured, feeling the urge to poke at it.

“Pretty?” Gavin stamped his hand to his heart. “Apollo, I’m flattered you think so! You’re quite the looker yourself, you know. I’m not kidding when I say your forehead is cute.” 

He wasn’t sure which was worse: Gavin complimenting him, or Gavin calling him by his given name. The combination of both rendered Apollo completely incoherent. 

“It’s not….” He cleared his throat. C’mon, Chords of Steel—don’t fail him now! “That wasn’t supposed to be a—compliment!” Oh, good: that had been loud. Incredibly loud. And raspy. He saw a few heads crane to look at him. 

“Hmm. It sounded like one to me.” Gavin smirked, and—oh, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing, the bastard! “Apollo, Apollo, Apollo… your composure is slipping.” 

He blubbered, uselessly. 

“Now you’re just being mean to him,” Trucy said. The picnic table shook as she gave Gavin a kick.   

“Maybe you’re right.” Gavin tossed his hair back with a flip of his fingers. “I guess I’m being cruel. Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive me,” his eyes gleamed, “Apollo Justice?” 

Oh, god. What a pretentious _jerk_! It wasn’t Apollo’s fault that his face was crimson, or his neck sweaty—Prosecutor Gavin was just so… charming. It wasn’t weird to think that, right? It was natural to get flustered when complimented, especially by somebody so attractive. N-not that he was calling Gavin attractive—except that he most certainly _was_ attractive, and that was a major part of the problem.

Goddamn him.  

He pegged Gavin as the type of person able to seduce his way out of a speeding ticket. It was loathsome. He had never pegged himself to be the type of person to fall for such obvious tricks, either, but… he couldn’t help it. It felt too easy—and, even worse, it felt too expected.

But, hey. He had a trump card, too. 

He met Prosecutor Gavin’s eyes, took a deep breath, and said from around the lump in his throat: “Forgiveness might be asking for too much, Klavier.” 

And then, all of the haughtiness riding high on Klavier Gavin’s cheeks and lips drained away in one beat of his lashes. His dark skin deepened in shade as blood pooled in his dimples, and he reached up to tug harshly at his bangs. 

“Ach, what an effect,” he muttered. “And here I thought you were overreacting.” 

“I didn’t get that reaction when I did it,” Trucy complained. She was smiling, though—in the same manner as a devil, but smiling nonetheless. 

Klavier seemed bothered by that fact, too. He caught his lip between his teeth, worrying the skin. “What a pickle. _Weggezaubert, so scheint es_.”  

Apollo didn’t know whether he should feel accomplished or not. On one hand, he was proud that he had made the great Klavier Gavin spurt and sputter in embarrassment—yeah, two could play at that game!

But, at the same time, he had to wonder _how_. It wasn’t like Apollo was attractive in any sort of grand fashion (at least, not compared to the rock god over there), so how? Did Klavier find it funny? Maybe he was embarrassed _for_ Apollo, instead. 

He felt kind of irritated. 

Klavier met his eyes from around his fingers, still pulling at his bangs. With the force he was tugging, it was surprising that he had any hairs left. “What’s that look for? Don’t tell me you have another ace up your sleeve.” 

Klavier’s tongue licked his bottom lip, nursing where he had been gnawing at it previously. Apollo watched, transfixed.  

He couldn’t pinpoint why Klavier made him so prickly. He couldn’t pinpoint why his heart had fluttered when Klavier had texted him, or why he had agreed to dinner so readily. He couldn’t pinpoint why he sat there on that wobbly picnic bench, broth hot in his belly as he stared at Klavier’s lips and wondered if they still tasted of too-salty noodles. 

No, he couldn’t pinpoint why. As any good lawyer would say, he needed to gather more evidence before leaping to any farfetched conclusions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! I hope you all enjoyed that little excursion away from the campaign! I know I certainly did, heh. D&D will resume next update, though! 
> 
> It's been stormy all week, and on Friday night -- as the wind was howling and the rain pounding -- I started Curse of Strahd with my friends. Spooky stuff! I play a bullywug rogue named Rhubarb whose entire shtick completely contrasts with the gothic horror setting, but it's fun nonetheless! I hope all of your campaigns, if you're embarked on any, are going just as swimmingly.
> 
> Thank you for reading! There's only so many ways I can say that phrase, but please know that each utterance is more heartfelt than the last.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, y'all! I don’t know how many of you actually care about my update schedule, but... just in case, sorry about the lapse last week. I was super sick, and I wasn’t really up to editing. I’m all better now, though!  
> Back to D&D this week. You can find everybody's third level character sheets over here, on my [tumblr](http://gavinner.tumblr.com/post/156854659040/hey-there-here-are-everyones-third-level)! They're leveling up awfully fast, aren't they?

Athena had been acting suspicious all week. At first, Apollo assumed that she was giddy about her victory in court, but… no, that couldn’t have been it. She kept whispering to Mr. Wright whenever she thought Apollo wasn’t looking, and when called out on it, they both only offered him chary smiles. He guessed that they were planning something—not for or about Apollo himself, but maybe for Mr. Wright…? He was leaving for Khura’in in two weeks’ time, so it was possible that they were planning some sort of good-bye party. But why would Mr. Wright be in charge of his own going-away party? He wasn’t _that_ conceited, was he? 

Well, whatever. He didn’t think about it too hard. 

Friday eventually rolled around, and with it did all of their guests. Apollo cursed himself—he actually found himself looking forward to Friday night. He shouldn’t have been: sitting on the floor made his back hurt, and it was exhausting to be around people for so long, yet somehow he still enjoyed himself. He had only been playing for two weeks, but he felt _experienced_ —like he was actually getting the hang of the whole “roleplaying” thing.

Granted, they were only level three; and they were, at the end of the day, a bunch of grown adults sitting in a circle on the floor pretending to slay dragons, but that wasn’t the point. It was fun, and seeing all of his coworkers—no, _friends_ , he scolded himself—drop their business composures and act like their wizard and elf OCs was totally worth it in the end.  

“Maybe I should buy the office a table,” Klavier half-whispered into Apollo’s ear as they settled on the floor. Mr. Wright was still busy setting up his Dungeon Master’s station, so they hadn’t started yet. “When’s Herr Wright’s birthday?” 

“Uh, birthday?” Apollo frowned, thinking. Trucy had thrown elaborate birthday celebrations for her father in the past—much to Mr. Wright’s chagrin (he didn’t like the reminder of his ever-increasing age). “Sometime in October, I think. I forget the exact date.” 

“Ach. That won’t do at all.” Klavier spun one of his many silver rings around his fingers. “Hmm. What about Trucy’s birthday? Or Athena’s?” 

Athena, seated to Klavier’s left, waggled a knowing finger at him. “Apollo’s birthday was a couple of weeks ago. You just missed it.” She chuckled under her breath. “I know that’s what you were actually priming for!” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Klavier said, playing dumb. He leaned in towards Athena, bumping shoulders with her, and continued, “I can pick on you too, you know. Why are you acting so smiley today, hmm?” 

“Sm-smiley?!” Athena drew back. “I-I don’t know what you mean!” 

“She’s been acting like that all week,” said Apollo. 

Trucy slipped into their conversation. “You’ve noticed it, too!” 

“You guys are crazy! I-I’m not hiding anything! Of course not!” She scratched the back of her head, much like how Mr. Wright did when he got embarrassed. Maybe she had picked up a few of his mannerisms, with all of their sneaking about. 

Ema, chewing on some of her Snackoos, snorted out a harsh laugh. “Nobody said you were hiding something. All you Wrights—you’re all worthless at lying. Bluffing, maybe, but lying? Pah!” 

“I-I’m not a Wright! I’m a Cykes!” 

“Hey! Don’t lump me in with the Wrights, either!”

From the table above them, Mr. Wright laughed a little too hard for Apollo’s liking. “Calm down, kids,” he said, folding the DM’s screen so he could meet all of their eyes. “Don’t be rude to our guests.” 

“Yeah,” Trucy chimed, nudging Apollo in the stomach with her bony elbow, “don’t be mean, Bro!” 

Actually, that wasn’t as weird as he would’ve thought. Well, with Trucy, anyway—Mr. Wright’s comment, on the other hand, made Apollo’s head _pang_ with the beginning of an intense migraine. 

“So, you guys have leveled up already, yes?” Mr. Wright asked. Sitting at that table, his stance and posture reminded Apollo of that of the Judge, watching the courtroom like a hawk. He didn’t have the face for it, though—he was still too young, too mischievous. Too partisan, maybe. 

“Yes,” everyone droned in unison. 

“You all sound thrilled to be here. I’m glad I’m able to bring you so much unbridled joy.” 

“It’s not that,” Ema said. She reached up to fiddle with her glasses—maybe it was a nervous habit of hers. “I mean, I think this is a lot of fun! If I wasn’t having fun, I wouldn’t have shown up. It’s just….” She sagged forward. “Character creation is pretty tedious.” 

“Well, every game has to have rules,” Mr. Wright said. “Otherwise, there’d be way too many arguments. Like kids on a playground who can’t decide on the rules for foursquare.” 

He wasn’t making the game sound all that appealing. 

Mr. Wright must’ve noticed Apollo’s annoyed look, for he chuckled again and smiled at him. “I guess we should get moving then, huh? You guys are almost done, actually. So as long as you guys don’t screw around too much, I think we’ll make that two-week deadline in no time.” 

“Deadline?” Ema asked. “What? What’s happening in two weeks?” 

Athena, from Ema’s right, answered her question: “You didn’t know? Mr. Wright’s leaving.” 

“ _Leaving_? W-what?!” 

“On vacation,” Mr. Wright corrected smoothly. “Don’t worry—I’m not going anywhere for long. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, maybe a month.” 

“You deserve a vacation, Herr Wright,” Klavier purred. He reached up to flip some hair out of his eyes.

Ah, yes. The hair.

Apollo had spent enough time around him to realize that he did that when he was jittery. He had also spent enough time playing this stupid game with him to realize that he almost _always_ , without fail, did it whenever he was talking to Mr. Wright. He had no idea why.

Well, that wasn’t entirely correct. Apollo could wager a guess as to why making polite conversation with the man you falsely disbarred over nine years ago would be awkward. Mr. Wright didn’t seem to hold a grudge against Klavier, though—and if he did, he hid it well enough. So why was Klavier so nervous…? 

Maybe Apollo should have asked about it. But there were too many people around to bring it up; he’d have to wait until a later date.

“Where are you going?” Ema asked, reeling Apollo back into reality. 

“Khura’in. As in, the foreign country. A friend of mine has been living there for a while, and it’s high time I went to visit her.” Mr. Wright’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. Apollo knew who he was referring to: a Miss Maya Fey. He had never met her personally, but she must’ve been quite the character, considering that Mr. Wright was practically glowing as he talked about her. Granted, he lit up in the same way whenever he spoke about Prosecutor Edgeworth, and Prosecutor Edgeworth wasn’t what Apollo would call a _character_. He was too dignified to be a _character_. (Except for that frilly thing he wore around his neck—that always threw Apollo for a loop.) 

Ema nodded in understanding. “Khura’in, huh? I’ve been hearing a lot about that place, lately. Apparently, the Prosecutor’s Office is arranging for a Khura’inese prosecutor to work on cases over here.” 

Klavier agreed, “Ja, I’ve heard the same thing. It’s not that bizarre for foreign prosecutors to request permission to work here, but I’ve never met one from Khura’in before.” 

Apollo picked up his character sheet and examined the text very, _very_ carefully.

“Incidentally, Herr Payne—Gaspen, that is—recently retired. Rumor said he was moving to Khura’in.” Klavier took special interest in one particular lock of hair, pulling it in front of his eyes and going cross-eyed to scrutinize it. “I've been there once or twice on tour. It’s a relaxing, beautiful place—perfect for retirement, I’d imagine.” 

“Did he, now? It’s a small world after all.” The corner of Mr. Wright’s mouth twitched. “Let’s hope I don’t run into him. I mean, the chances of that happening would be astronomical, right? But, knowing my luck….” 

Apollo cleared his throat. “Umm, Mr. Wright. Do you think we could maybe, uh, start…?” He crinkled the corner of his character sheet as he spoke. “I don’t, err… want to be here until midnight again. I’m not really a night person.” 

“Huh?” Mr. Wright blinked—what, had he forgotten why they were there _that_ easily? “Oh, yeah, the campaign. I have a checkpoint in mind, so hopefully you guys make it there at a reasonable hour.”  

He set back up his DM screen and then coughed into his fist. Everybody settled down into the carpet, trying to get in as relaxed a position as they could while remaining on the hard, stiff floor. 

“So last time we left off, you were talking with a pair of vampires, weren’t you?”

 

* * *

 

…But I’ll try to speed things along. Basically, Bonnie and Bettie—the two bickering vampire sisters fought during the last session—allowed the heroes to stay in their mansion as thanks for sparing them. They retreated upstairs to nurse their wounds, allowing the group to sleep the rest of the night away uneventfully. 

I’m going to be nice and say that the few hours between the fight and the morning counts as a long rest, so all of the spellcasters get their slots back. 

“Thank goodness,” Truth mutters. 

Dawn eventually arrives, with sunlight streaking in through the shattered windows. The mansion isn’t so spooky in the daylight: the interior design is actually quite pleasant. With a little bit of fixing up, it could be lovely. Maybe Bonnie and Bettie are slowly turning it into home—there are a few places where there is white stencil on the ground, as if marking where something should be moved.

“I wish we could’ve said good-bye,” Atheinah says as she packs up her bedroll. “They were really nice to us. But I don’t think they’d take too kindly to being woken up during the day, huh?” 

“ _Nice_ to us?” Aphollo parrots. “They tried to kill us in our sleep! If we hadn’t taken watches, we would be dead.” 

“But they were nice after that!” 

“Yeah, after they knew we could beat them.” He stuffs his remaining gear into his equipment pack and slings it back over his shoulder. “But I guess, in the grand scheme of things, it could’ve been a lot worst. I’m glad they were at least a _little_ reasonable.” 

Truth beams at the lot of them as she smooths out her sleep-wrinkled robes. “I think most people are reasonable! The answer isn’t always killing! Unless you’re dealing with zombies, I guess. Heehee.” 

Once the heroes gather up all of their belongings, they bid farewell to the silent mansion and continue down the wooded, overgrown path to the east, into the mountains. They maintain the same marching order: Aphollo leading out front with Truth by his side, Klavi’or and Atheinah in the middle, and Eyma lurking in back. 

As the path trudges ever eastward, the trees around them dwindle away. They’re replaced by rocks and boulders of great magnitude, and the relatively flat path begins to incline at a drastic angle: up, into the gray-and-purple mountains above. They glitter in the early sunlight, as if made of diamond and amethyst. 

“We have to hike up, yeah?” Eyma asks. “Until… when, exactly?” 

“Bettie said something about moss and mist,” Aphollo says. “Here, I wrote it down—uh. ‘Follow the switchback trail up the glowing, mossy mountains until it starts to get really misty.’ Or something.” He frowns, then looks up and down the mountainous landscape sprawling in front of him. “Is there a switchback trail?” 

Indeed, the trail that our heroes are currently on looks like it follows up into the mountains, switchbacking as the rock grow steeper. The trail climbs up, and up, and up—until boulders and vegetation block sight of it. 

“Okay!” Truth calls with glee. “Let’s get going!”  

They find out rather quickly that hiking is _awful_. 

Not only does the path incline steeply upwards, but rocks and scattered bushes block the path, forcing the party to navigate around them in exceedingly more complicated ways. Instead of a trail, it’s a _trek_ : up and over jagged rocks and through thorny shrubs that bite at their skin. The sweat starts building _fast_ , and the vigor once so strongly felt throughout the group starts to blunder. 

“C’mon, guys!” Eyma is the only one who’s still somehow peachy. At some point, she moved up to the front of the group. As both a Rogue and an Elf, difficult terrain is child’s play for her: she climbs over obstacles with ease, maintaining her beautiful Elvish complexion all the while. “Keep it up!” 

Klavi’or isn’t quite as nimble as Eyma is, Klavi’or, but he can also traverse the terrain fairly easily. He doesn’t have the skill to climb rocks _and_ tune his lyre, though, which is upsetting—judging from his rotten mood, anyway. 

“We can’t all be as agile as you, Fräulein Guard,” he says under his breath. 

Truth joins him. Her white robes and cape are now a completely different shade thanks to the lavender dust, but she isn’t bothered. “This is fun, isn’t it? It’s more fun than following a boring path through the woods! This is a much more _dynamic_ location!” 

Atheinah and Aphollo, on the other hand, are both _dying_. Especially Aphollo—with his heavy armor and his horrible Dexterity score, he may as well be a lumbering metal slug. His face is bright red, and his breath puffs out haggard and worn. Sweat, too, gels his hair down the back of his neck. 

“We should—slow down,” he says through heaves. He glances below him: they’ve already made a significant gain in height. The thick wood is hundreds of feet below them. Perhaps, if one squints, the long black line that separates the border of Angelite and Cur’ain can be seen, drawn on the far horizon. 

Aphollo squeaks at the sight and quickly turns back to the path in front of him. 

“Hah—hah,” Atheinah laughs, but with her shortage of breath, it sounds like panting. “Are you—scared of—heights, Aphollo?”  

“N-no! I mean, maybe a little… but it’s not a big deal!” He swallows a thick gulp, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I-I’m fine! Really!” 

“Do you—need me to—hold your hand?” 

“Hold your sweaty, disgusting hand? We’ll just end up—slipping.” 

“F-fine then! I’m sorry I asked! You’ll get to—fall to your death by yourself, then!” 

“U-urk!” 

“You’re wasting precious breath by arguing,” says Eyma, leagues in front of them. “The key to maintaining keen balance is a keen mind! If all you’re doing is arguing, of course you’re going to fall to your death! Also, not wearing heavy armor helps, too.” 

“I hate Elves,” Atheinah mutters, inaudible to Eyma—fortunately for her. 

As they ascend higher into the atmosphere, the air thins. White mist wisps into existence and starts to snake around their ankles and up to their heads. It’s not _quite_ mist: it leaks up and away from the lavender, mossy rocks, like steam rising from boiling water. It’s cold, too—the same bone-chattering cold that plagues the entire nation of Cur’ain. It feels like _death_ , dark magic, and desecration. Nervousness bubbles in the party’s guts, and their pores pinprick to fine points. 

“Mist,” Aphollo murmurs, his thick eyebrows knotting together. “We were supposed to look out for mist. The entrance to the cavern should be around here somewhere, right?” 

It’s impossible to tell. The higher they climb, the thicker the mist becomes—until it’s impossible to perceive anything farther than five feet away. Aphollo and Atheinah can see each other perfectly fine, but as for the rest of the heroes—they’ve disappeared, into the whiteness. 

“Uh, guys,” Aphollo calls, voice carrying through the fog. “We should stick together. Anybody got a light? Klavi’or?” 

From somewhere beyond, Klavi’or’s voice responds: “Ja, baby. I’ll whip you up a tune.” There’s strumming, presumably from his lyre. It’s muffled, though, and distant… had Klavi’or really been that far ahead? 

Despite the strumming, the mist remains. Aphollo can’t make out heads or tails of any dancing lights. 

“Strange. My lights aren’t cutting through the mist. That’s troublesome.” Klavi’or throws his voice: “Fräulein Guard! Truth! I think it would be best if we were to regroup, ja?” 

Aphollo can hear Truth, nearer to him than Klavi’or: “Okay! I’m following the sound of your voice!” 

Eyma, though, doesn’t offer an answer at all. 

“Eyma!” Aphollo calls, cupping his hands over his mouth. “This isn’t the time to show off!” 

Still, no response. 

Atheinah jabs Aphollo with her elbow. “This mist is really weird. Light can’t pass through it, so… it has to be magic, right? I just hope there’s nothing, well, _lurking_ out there, you know?” 

“I can do a check to see if there’s any fiends, undead, or fey,” he suggests. 

“I mean, you could? Or maybe—ugh, maybe I don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, you feel?” 

The sound of Klavi’or’s lyre continues flittering through the air. Aphollo and Atheinah move towards it as best as they can, careful to watch their step on the unstable rocks. 

“Ah, Truth. There you are,” Klavi’or says. Aphollo swears his voice sounds _farther_ away. “Now all we need do is locate Fräulein Gua— _auugh_!” 

Klavi’or emits a throat-wrenching cry, and Truth a high-pitched squeal. Amid the screeching, though, there’s also what sounds like… laughter. 

“Ha—ha! I gotcha good, didn’t I, half-breed?” Upon further analysis of the voice: yeah, it’s definitely Eyma. “Heheh, the look on your face! Totally worth it!” 

“Eyma Su’kai!” Klavi’or sounds appalled. “How could you? This is no time for games! This is a matter of—” 

“What? Life and death? Calm down: it’s all a game anyway.” Aphollo can imagine Eyma’s smirk in vivid detail. “Learn to live a little, would you? Ha, ha.” 

“H-he’s right! That wasn’t very funny at all!” Truth says. “How would you have liked it if one of us snuck up on you?!” 

“Snuck up? On _me_ , the Rogue? You’re a funny Tiefling, you know that? There’s no—” 

Her voice suddenly cuts out, like the phone line going dead. Or—something more fantastical, I dunno. A Message spell wearing out…? 

Aphollo and Atheinah look at one another. 

“E-Eyma?” Atheinah tries. 

There’s no response from the mist. 

“Truth?” 

“Uh, Klavi’or?” 

Silence, except for the wind blowing whistling melodies through the crevasses of the rocks. 

“This isn’t good,” Atheinah says, her teeth clenched. “Where did they go? They couldn’t have, like, fallen or anything, right?” 

Aphollo flinches. “F-fallen?” He shakes his head hastily, ridding his mind of the thought. “No, that can’t be it! We would’ve heard a scream. Maybe it’s something to do with the mist?” 

“Do you think it’s eating sound? Or is it, like… teleporting us? Oh, like an endless labyrinth!” Atheinah flicks her moon-sliver earrings. “I remember Bettie—or maybe it was Bonnie—saying something about a labyrinth. I was imagining an actual maze, but….” 

“But we didn’t even get to the entrance!” Aphollo says. “It’s probably just a defense mechanism to keep people out, I bet. But there has to be away around it, right? Every puzzle has an an—swer…?” 

As soon as the last of the words leave Aphollo’s lips, the white mist around him and Atheinah starts to change color—from white, to a deep, smoky purple. It reeks, too: of brimstone, of darkness, of _death_. The mist warps and twists and then _swarms_ around them, whipping around their limbs in a vortex of mystifying magic. A high-pitched, bell-like chime rings in both of their ears, and rings, and _rings_ , and rings again. It’s louder than the wind, than their thoughts, and drowns out the entire universe in its all-consumption. 

One of them probably screams, but it’s inaudible; their minds are swallowed up by the mist. 

 

* * *

 

The phenomena doesn’t last forever. Eventually, the purple fades back into white, and the mist begins to peter away—until the fog is gone entirely, leaving Aphollo and Atheinah quaking in their boots. 

“What the _heck_?!” Aphollo cries. “What was _that_?!”  

“Oh, good. They showed up.” 

Aphollo whips around to face the voice. Mid-turn, though, he realizes something odd: he’s not on the mountainside anymore. There’s no purple rocks, no mist, no terrifying sight below. 

No. Instead, there’s _gold_. Mountains and mountains of pure _gold_.  

He blubbers. “Wh-where—?” 

“Some entrance!” The sound of Truth giggling registers somewhere in his peripheral radar, but he has trouble concentrating. How can he, with all of this… _gold_? “No wonder Bettie said we couldn’t miss it—it warped us right inside!” 

“And thank God for that,” Eyma grumbles in response. “For a split second there, I was expecting some kind of puzzle entrance. A ‘speak, friend, and enter’ type of deal. I appreciate the no-nonsense approach.” 

A gigantic cavern envelops the heroes—presumably of the same mountain range as the one they had been traversing before, as the same purple dust rolls heavy off of the sloping walls. Torches mounted on the walls illuminate the interior, and—well, it is most certainly a dragon’s _hoard_. Glittering gold catches the torchlight, mounds of it arcing up to the vaulting cavern ceiling. There are gold earrings, bangles, armor, chalices, shields, foreign coins, instruments, blades, and battle axes—not to mention all of the _jewels_. Ruby-encrusted cups, diamond hilts, jade statues of strange, ill-shaped beasts—the heroes are in the middle of it all, crushing priceless artifacts and jewelry beneath their feet.

“Wow,” Aphollo says under his breath. “This is all very excessive, isn’t it? I see why people adventure here.” 

He and Atheinah twist towards their compadres. Truth, Eyma, and Klavi’or are all shuffling near them, Klavi’or sitting atop a chair-sized pile of trinkets, Truth clasping her hands in awe, and Eyma rifling through the treasure below. 

“It wasn’t even that hard to get to. I’m surprised the place hasn’t been entirely looted,” Eyma says as she picks up a small, ruby statue. It’s sculpted in likeness of a bird, with bright sapphire eyes. She pockets it.

“H-hey, wait a second!” Aphollo crosses his arms over his chest, maybe in an attempt to make himself look more intimidating. “You can’t _pocket_ anything! This stuff isn’t yours!” 

“Then whose is it?” Eyma snorts. “Look around you, Aphollo. Notice anything weird?” 

Aphollo wrinkles his nose but does, indeed, take a closer look at the treasure around him. It’s all very lovely, glowing in the torchlight—but it isn’t flawless. 

“It’s really dusty, isn’t it?” he says, kneeling down. He runs a finger over a golden grail, and he leaves a clean trail behind. “It hasn’t been touched in a while. What kind of dragon leaves its hoard unguarded?” 

“A dead one,” Atheinah says. She, too, inspects a piece of treasure: a fine silver crown, fit for a princess. “But… ugh, that doesn’t make any sense! So where did that dragon that attacked the castle come from, if not here?” 

Rather than searching for treasure, Klavi’or seems content with strumming his lyre. “We discussed this before, didn’t we? Nothing was summoned. The dragon that we saw that day—I doubt it was anything more than a trick.” 

“It had to appear some other way,” Truth says, glancing up at the cavern ceiling above. “But if it wasn’t a summoning portal, then that increases the number of potential suspects, doesn’t it? It’s not that hard to create an illusion, or even a conjuration, like that dragon. Well, okay—it’s pretty hard, but I think there’s more than two people in the whole plane who can do it.” 

“Whoa!” Atheinah cries as she picks up a dagger. Its blade sparkles an iridescent blue, and its hilt looks to be made out of marrow. “Look at this! A magic weapon?!” 

Aphollo hums—a low sound in the back of his throat. “Does this help our case? Now we’re back at square one.” A grimace passes over his face. “When we get back to Capi’tohl, Queen Gha’ran will just send us on another wild goose chase to somewhere else. I don’t like this at all.” 

“We should put our foot down!” says Atheinah, stomping her feet in accent to her words. “We need to tell her we want to question the people present that day! We should talk to Ray’fah, and the Angelese royals—as well as Queen Gha’ran and her husband themselves!” 

“That would be optimal,” Aphollo says. “I don’t know if Queen Gha’ran is going to give us the chance, though.” 

“She was awfully quick to send us on this journey, ja? Almost like she wanted us out of her hair.” Klavi’or picks at his lyre, tuning some of the sharp strings.   

“Who cares?!” Eyma plucks a necklace out of the hoard—pearls, strung together with silver thread. “We went on a stupid journey, so what? Look what we got out of it! Seems worth it to me!” Her eyes glitter as brilliantly as the gold. Her inner Rogue must be slipping through. 

Aphollo’s forehead creases. “I’m still not sure if we should take anything. Well, uh—maybe like, _one_ thing? To prove that we were here. But taking treasure for our own personal gain… isn’t that a little disrespectful?” 

“To whom? The dead dragon?” Eyma slips the pearl necklace into her bag. “I ain’t afraid of no ghost, Paladin. Dragon ghost or not.” 

“This is a universe where zombies and vampires canonically exist, and you’re calling into question the existence of _ghosts_?”  

“Oh, I’m sure they’re out there somewhere in this crazy world. But a _dragon_ ghost? Please.” Eyma grins at him. “Let’s not be ridiculous.” 

Aphollo mutters a string of complaints. 

Truth coughs into her fist, and everyone stops their milling to look at her. “So, we’re done here, right?” she asks, tail drooping behind her. “Because, umm, if so… I don’t suppose any of you see a way _out_ , do you?” 

The party grows quiet. 

“Oh,” Atheinah says, “good point. We can’t leave the same way we came in, huh?” 

The piles of treasure roll like waves over the cavern floor, and it’s impossible to see the walls beyond them. The cave stretches out for a while, too—it’s an exceptionally _large_ dwelling. Indeed, there isn’t an exit in sight. 

“Maybe we should get to a higher vantage point,” Aphollo says. “Like, on top of one of those larger piles…? We might be able to see something from there.” 

“How about we split up?” Atheinah suggests. 

Aphollo stares at her. 

“I mean—it’s a big cavern, right? If we wander off in one direction and the actual exit is the other way, we could be here forever!” Atheinah winces at the thought. “I’m not saying every man for himself, but maybe… half-in-half? Yeah.” 

“If we find something, we can communicate through some sort of flare system.” Klavi’or stands up and tucks his lyre back behind him. “I have a party trick that might be helpful, too.” 

“Party trick?” Aphollo asks. “Like what?” 

_This might be useful, instead of shouting._  

Aphollo yelps and leaps back, almost tripping over one of the many jutting treasures in the process. He hears Klavi’or’s voice, but not from the man standing near him, no. His voice, sickly sweet, reverberates in Aphollo’s brain, constricting his thoughts. It’s suffocating, to have somebody else’s thoughts overwrite your own—even if it’s only for a moment. 

_Oh, what the hell is happening now,_ Aphollo thinks, rubbing at his temples. 

_What a nasty mouth you have on you. Hmm, what else is the noble Paladin hiding about himself?_  

Klavi’or smiles at Aphollo, though his lips remain closed.  

Atheinah glances in between them, and her shoulders slouch. “They’ve already evolved to the ‘communicating with their eyes’ part of the relationship, I guess. Moving fast, aren’t they?” 

_H-hey! For the last time, you’re completely off-base!_  

_Alas, my Paladin, she cannot hear you._ Klavi’or snaps his fingers together in time to a silent rhythm. _This is a telepathic channel between the two of us. I can activate it within a certain range—as long as we don’t wander too far away from one another, we should be able to communicate freely._  

Aphollo flutters his lashes.

_This is weird,_ he thinks. _I don’t like this at all. I think I’ve, uh, forgotten how to speak._  

_Concentrate and move your lips. You can still talk verbally. I wouldn’t mute you._  

_Y-yeah, I’m sure you wouldn’t, but… this is kind of giving me a headache. Could you turn it off?_  

_Turn it off? Hmm? All right._ Klavi’or’s gaze travels over to Atheinah. _Perhaps I should open a channel with Fräulein Angel instead? She might be able to handle it better than you can._  

Aphollo visibly flinches.

_Oh, pardon me. I assumed that you two were going to split off together, considering how you’ve been sticking to one another today._ Klavi’or’s chuckle is audible. _Unless there’s someone else you’d like to explore with?_  

_I-it doesn’t matter who goes with who! I don’t have a preference!_

_Ach, the truth is revealed._ He plants a hand to his chest and clutches at his violet robes. _You wound my heart, Aphollo. Think of all the lovely songs I could sing about you, if we were to adventure together!_  

_I don’t want to hear any of your songs! You’re not as great a singer as you think, anyway._ Despite his scathing thoughts, a pink flush is rising on Aphollo’s cheeks. What a confusing sight it must be to the girls, who can’t hear their conversation at all. 

“If they’re just gonna go at it,” Eyma says as she pockets an emerald-encrusted signet ring, “maybe we should split up, men and women. That works for me.” 

_Look at that. Apparently, we’re partners after all_ , Klavi’or’s voice waxes.  

Aphollo swallows a noise. _L-like I said, I didn’t have a preference. It doesn’t matter to me._  

_Are you sure about that?_  

_Wh-what do you mean?_  

_You wear your heart on your sleeve,_ schatz _. And—above your head._  

Aphollo doesn’t know what he means by that. He looks at his armored sleeve, as if the answer would be there—and when he finds nothing, he looks above him. 

And he sees hearts. Literal _hearts_. 

Four or five red-and-pink hearts, fat and bouncy, swirl over his head like a halo. They look like they’re ripped straight from a little girl’s comic, what with their sparkling and their cheerful twirling.

Aphollo blushes deep scarlet. 

“Wh-what?” He tries to swat the hearts away, but they expertly avoid his hands. “Wh-what’s happening? Somebody’s casting a spell! We’re being attacked!” 

All of the other party members are snickering, but one laugh is more conspicuous than the rest. Aphollo casts his fiery gaze on the culprit. 

“Trucy! Knock it _off_!”  

“Who’s Trucy?” Truth is holding her wand in her right hand, tracing tiny heart-shaped circles in the air. She beams at him, fangs sharp with mischief. “Heehee. You were so obvious—I thought you could use the boost!” 

“This isn’t funny! I’m _serious_!” Aphollo’s eyebrows are wrought with anger, and his muscles draw tense beneath his armor. Combined with his already-reddened face, his complexion is reminiscent of an irate chili pepper. “I don’t—it’s not—why would you—?” 

“It’s all in good fun,” Klavi’or says with an insufferably pleasant smile. The way he looks at Aphollo, all wide-eyed and glimmery—it’s like he has a perfect-twenty Charisma score. “We should get going, ja? That exit isn’t going to find—” 

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with _you_ ,” Aphollo cuts him off. He balls his hands into tight fists, and is voice is raspy. Oh dear, he’s rather upset, isn't he? 

Truth eeps, and the hearts above Apollo’s head shift their shape into that of stormy thunder clouds.  

Aphollo glares at her, too. “Not with you, either!” He looks over at Eyma, who’s shooting him a smug grin, and he rolls his eyes. “Atheinah, come on. We’re going.” 

“H-huh? Me?” Atheinah startles in her spot, then awkwardly fidgets with the locket around her neck. “Umm… Truth was just messing around, you know? Y-you can go with Klavi’or if you really want to—” 

“Why would you think I’d want to in the first place?!” Aphollo’s voice is climbing in decibel. “You guys have the _completely_ wrong idea, and I’d appreciate it if you’d all cut it the _hell_ out!”  

Truth draws back with wide eyes, and the minor illusion above Aphollo’s head vanishes in a whiff of smoke.

Klavi’or flinches as well. His jaw drops slack, and both of his hands move up to pull on either side of his bangs. He’s pulling hard, too—yeesh, doesn’t that hurt? 

A palpable silence develops within the group. Truth and Klavi’or are quiet, maybe waiting for Aphollo to either apologize or continue with his tirade—but he does neither. He only fumes in silence. Steam would be billowing from his ears, surely, if Truth had kept up her illusion. 

“Jesus, Justice,” Eyma says with impeccable tact, “learn to take a joke.” 

And with that, Aphollo grabs the sheet-white Atheinah by the arm and drags her off.

… 

I guess… you guys are actually splitting the party. Don’t you guys know you should _never_ split the party? 

…Th-there’s no need to glare like that, Apollo! Jeez… I didn’t count on this, but, uh, we can manage. 

We’ll cut right to the chase, then: the second that Aphollo and Atheinah reach the top of the first mound of gold, the cavern begins to shake. 

“Sh-shake?” Atheinah repeats. “Like an earthquake?” 

Not exactly. The walls and ceiling of the cavern seem perfectly sound: it’s the floor—and subsequently, the ocean of treasure—that appears to be rumbling. 

The other three—Truth, Klavi’or, and Eyma—are still in view from Aphollo and Atheinah’s spot atop their pile of gold. They stumble, too, and struggle to keep their balance. 

“Can something just _not_ go wrong, for once?” Aphollo grumbles, flaring his nostrils.  

Come on, now. If everything went according to plan, it would be a pretty boring game, wouldn’t it? 

Anyway, as the shaking continues, the heroes find it harder and harder to stay on their feet. Aphollo sinks to his knees, Atheinah beside him. And, as they claw to keep a hold of something—anything—they realize something problematic. 

The treasure below them is flowing, like waves on a crystal sea. It’s impossible to take hold of something stationary, for every jewel, crown, and cup is as unstable as they. And, as the treasure shakes, it laps over Aphollo and Atheinah’s feet—enveloping their ankles, then their calves, up to their thighs. They’re being swallowed by it.

“ _Swallowed_?” Atheinah cries. The more she struggles, the faster she sinks—until treasure is up to her waist. “ _Eek_! Aphollo, if we don’t do something, we’re going to, uh, suffocate! Y-you’d suffocate if you were covered in gold, right?” 

Aphollo is sinking quickly, too. He tries to push himself out of the hoard, but to no avail. 

“I don’t know! You see cartoon characters do fine, swimming in and diving into giant treasure piles.” He’s up to his neck, now, in jewels and silverware. “Maybe this is like that one scene in _Harry Potter_? Devil’s snare, devil’s snare? Uh, if we relax, then everything should be—” 

The treasure engulfs Atheinah fully in one fell _gulp_. Her screams are muffled by the treasure, until they fade from earshot entirely, and the only sound that remains is the clink-clank-clang of gold against silver, sapphire against ruby. 

“A-Atheinah?!” 

Aphollo doesn’t have time to dwell on Atheinah’s fate for very long—for the waves of gold envelop all of his face, and he sinks deeper and deeper, towards the center of the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please chill apollo jfc
> 
> I’m not sure why Apollo and Athena always wind up together in this fic. They have good chemistry, I guess! But I feel a little bad that Trucy/Ema aren’t getting the screentime they deserve. Not to mention that elephant in the room -- you know, uh... the purple one
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me through this long, grammar/issue-ridden, rambling ride, guys. I am infinitely appreciative of all of you still reading -- you have no idea. Thank you so, so much, from the very bottom of my heart!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, everyone! Here are those [3rd level character sheets](http://gavinner.tumblr.com/post/156854659040/hey-there-here-are-everyones-third-level) again!

Aphollo lands hard on the stony ground and takes a D10’s worth of fall damage. He crushes his arm at an awkward angle, and he swears that he either twists or breaks it, for a spike of pain shoots through his bloodstream. 

“ _God_ ,” he moans weakly to himself. He tries to pick himself up and observe his surroundings, but he is in pitch darkness. It’s quiet, too: the clanging of the treasure from above has stopped rattling. 

From above—that’s right. He had sunk through the hoard of treasure, like water. He must be underneath that cavern, now: deep in the heart of the mountains. Not that he had a good idea of where the hoard had been to begin with; after all, the mist just kind of _teleported_ him and the rest of the party into the treasure chamber. 

Speaking of the rest of the party. 

“Aphollo? Are you okay?” says a woman’s voice, loud and sharp. Atheinah, Aphollo thinks to himself. She can probably see him perfectly fine: Aasimars have Darkvision. Actually, pretty much everybody has Darkvision, except for those lame Humans. 

“I’m fine,” Aphollo says. “Landed on my arm, but that’s fine. What about—?” 

Before he can finish the thought, the deep cavern is suddenly ablaze with golden light. He squints and blinks for a second, adjusting himself to it, before he can make out Atheinah’s form clearly. The locket around her neck is glowing, filling the entire abode in bright light and warped shadows. She’s standing with her hands on her waist, her hips cocked, and her lips puckered in a pout. 

“Just you and me, it looks like,” she says. “Oh man, this is bad. I mean, we were going to split up when we were in a safe place, but splitting up in a spooky dungeon… seems like a bad time. I can’t believe they others are just—gone!”

“I can’t believe Mr. Wright actually made them leave the room.” 

Well, if they were _in_ the room, they might start metagaming. Don’t worry—this should be over shortly, and then _you_ guys get to leave the room. Fun for everyone. 

Aphollo stands up and brushes the silver-and-lavender dust off of his armor. “Goodie,” he deadpans. 

Aphollo and Atheinah appear to have landed in some sort of cave system: the walls are tight around them, and the air stuffy and still. Despite it not being held up by any physical force, the treasure above them glimmers in Atheinah’s light, functioning as a ceiling. Maybe it’s magic. (It’s definitely magic.) 

There’s two ways out of the room: a channel pointing… east, maybe? And the other one… west? Neither Aphollo nor Atheinah have keen enough senses to tell their cardinal directions apart without guidance of the sun. Their Rogue would be useful right about now, but alas—who knows where the heck the other three are. 

“So it’s either up or down, basically? Left or right?” Atheinah frowns and fiddles with her glowing locket. The light dances over the room, mingling with the shadows in a turning tango. “Or we could stay here, I guess, so we don’t wander too far away from the others. But… that’s boring!” 

“We can’t be expected to sit here like a couple of damsels in distress,” Aphollo agrees. “We should get moving. We can worry about the other lot later—right now, we need to focus on our own survival.” 

Atheinah’s lips quirk at their corners. “Still angry at them, I see. Maybe it’s a good thing Mr. Wright made them leave. Otherwise, you might’ve torn one of their heads off!” 

Guilty as charged. 

“Hmph.” 

“You got kind of irrationally angry there, you know. Like… the noise in your voice was really shrill. I mean, your voice is pretty shrill to begin with, but added to the discord… yeesh!” 

Aphollo takes off down a randomly-selected path—the left one. Ah, nice choice. 

“W-wait for me!” Atheinah tags along behind him. Despite Aphollo’s brisk pace, she’s able to easily keep up with him, thanks to her longer legs. Aphollo’s short, stumpy ones can’t carry him very far very fast. 

“I’m feeling a little ganged up on,” Aphollo mutters. 

“It’s fun to tease you,” Atheinah says as she falls into step next to him. She shoots him a grin bright enough to function as a source of light in itself. “You get so red! And sweaty! Oh, man… I wonder it would be like to see you work out? How would you even stay conscious…?” 

As Atheinah speaks, blood pools in Aphollo’s cheeks. It envelops all of his exposed skin in one fell swoop, shading the tips of his ears to the dip of his chest.

“Wonderful weather we’re having,” he says in a rather poor attempt to change the conversation. 

Atheinah ignores it. “Maybe she _was_ a little mean, but… you shouldn’t have snapped at Trucy like that. Did you see the look on her face?” She frowns at the memory. “You really hurt her feelings.” 

“Hmph.” 

“You can’t just ‘ _hmph_ ’ your way out of this! Darn it, Apollo—you’re supposed to be the adult, here! Act like one, would you?” 

“Ack.” 

“You can’t just ‘ _ack_ ’ your way out of it either, doofus!” 

Aphollo broods for a couple of moments, before he sags forward and lets out an exhausted sigh. He practically deflates—his hair even starts to droop. 

“I need to apologize to her,” he admits. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I just… I don’t know what happened. I let my emotions get the better of me.” 

At least you admitted it. I thought I was going to have to give you a _talk_.  

Atheinah nods her head, sympathetically. “Emotions have the habit of doing that on occasion. It’s not necessarily bad—it happens to the best of us. But, bottled-up emotions leaking their way out into normal social interaction… it’s often indicative of a bigger problem.” She continues to fondle her necklace. Her fingers tremble. 

Aphollo picks up on that, too. “Please don’t do what I think you’re going to do,” he says, almost whines.  

“But your emotions are completely out of whack! If you would just let me pinpoint what’s causing it—” 

“Trust me, I already know what’s causing it.” 

More like _who’s_ causing it. 

“Oh god, Athena—please don’t do this to me in front of _Mr. Wright_.”  

Atheinah bites her lip, torn. She glances at Aphollo, then down at her hands. Her auburn brows furrow together, and there’s an objection starting to form in her throat—but she can’t manage the strength to give it life. 

“Okay,” she finally says. “But believe you me, Apollo—as soon as we get the opportunity, we’re having a chat! A serious chat! An _intervention_!”  

I feel a little hurt that I’m not invited, but I suppose I understand the reasoning. I was taught that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say it at all. 

“Can we please get back to the game, guys?” 

Aphollo and Atheinah follow the cramped corridor for quite some time. At a certain point, it narrows to the extent that they can’t walk side-by-side. Jagged rocks ride up their shoulders, scraping at their armor and flesh. 

Eventually, the corridor funnels out into a more spacious room. It’s damp and dreary—stalactites drip from the ceiling, stalagmites rise from the floor. There’s rumbling from above, and a constant _drone_ of noise. 

“Running water?” Aphollo guesses.  

In the center of the room stands what looks to be some sort of stone alter, rising up to scrape the ceiling. Moss grows up its curves and cracks, vibrant and green. Strangely, no other moss is in the cavern—it looks out of place, like it has been moved there from some other location. 

Sitting on the altar is something catching the light and sparkling beautifully. From their distance away, it looks like a crystal ball, propped up by a golden base. 

“Sweet,” Atheinah says, “free treasure! Don’t mind if I do.” 

Before she can take any bounding leaps, Aphollo reaches out and grabs her arm. 

“Hold it. We shouldn’t go around _taking_ things, you know.” 

Atheinah rolls her eyes. “Quit being such a goody two-shoes, Aphollo! Who knows, maybe it could be a key piece of evidence. Besides,” she smirks, “what’s the worst thing that could happen?” 

“Okay, now you’re just saying stuff like that because you know it bothers me.” 

“You betcha!” 

Upon closer examination, the ball is most definitely odd. It resembles a snow globe—for billowing inside of it, behind the glass, are silver, lightening-woven, flowing clouds. It’s as if the ball holds within it a mini atmosphere.

It’s difficult to determine what, exactly, the sphere _is_ —only that there’s definitely something… _peculiar_ about it. Along its golden base is a string of strange text in an ancient-looking tongue, far too ancient for either Aphollo or Atheinah to recognize.

“Well, I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Aphollo says. “Maybe Truth would know something about it, since she’s a Wizard? Or… uh, I guess we could ask the Queen, but I have a feeling she wouldn’t be very cooperative.” 

“…Aphollo.”

He looks up from the sphere. “What is it?”

“You know that I’m a spellcaster too, don’t you?!” Atheinah balls her hands into fists, and Aphollo takes an apprehensive step away. “And for that matter, so are you! Do you not trust me or something, huh?”

“Wh-what? It’s not like that at all! It’s just—uh.” Aphollo scratches the beck of his neck. “I haven’t really seen you… err, do much of anything with your magic. Besides cast that ‘Cthulhu Beam’ thing.”

“It’s called ‘Eldritch Blast’!” Atheinah cries. “And I have more than just killer DPS up my sleeve, thank you! I’m contracted with the _Fey_!”

With that, she rolls up her sleeve and kneels, hard, onto the rocky ground in front of the altar. She stares at the orb, eyes bugging from her head.

Aphollo begins to reach for her. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by—”

“Shh!” She glances up to glare at him for a split second, before returning her piercing gaze back to the orb. “I’m concentrating!”

“…On what?”

“The writing here, stupid!” She points to the base, at the strange scribbles. “Don’t you know? My Fey bestowed me with a lot of cool powers, including some rockin’ invocations! And one of those is—the Eyes of the Rune Keeper, allowing me to comprehend any language!”

Oh, snap—really? I didn’t know you had that. Maybe I should be paying more attention when you guys level up.

“Bwuh-hah-hah—you fell right into my trap, Mr. Wright!”

“Are we playing _Dungeons and Dragons_ , here, or _Yu-Gi-Oh_?”

As Atheinah concentrates, she gently tugs at the blue stone hanging around her neck. It glows, faintly, as she whispers a few Sylvan words beneath her lips. The text along the base of the orb doesn’t change its shape, but—to Atheinah—the shapes suddenly take _form_ , the curves—meaning, the points—sense. And, all together, the scrawl turns into _language_ , as comprehensible as the Common tongue of which Atheinah and Aphollo both speak.

“Whoa,” she says, wiping a dew of sweat from her brow. “Wicked! I’ve never gotten the chance to do that before!”

To Aphollo, though, nothing has changed. He purses his lips together. “Uh, so… you did what, now? You can read whatever’s written on there?”

“Sure can!” Atheinah clears her throat. “Okay, I wanna read it! What’s it say, what’s it say?”

Atheinah reads the words out loud for Aphollo to hear. As she speaks, Aphollo transcribes the message onto a loose piece of parchment from his bag.

“ _when dragon and tiger battle_  
_the hallowed mother knows,_  
 _those pure of heart whom She does rattle_  
 _to whom the orb bestows;_  
 _and if their bliss does envy kiss_  
 _which threatens Her aflame,_  
 _to save the She who is amiss_  
 _but speak and act Her name._ ”

As Aphollo finishes writing down Atheinah’s words, he looks up at her.

“Tell me,” he says with a snide smirk, “did the poem rhyme in its original language, or were you liberal in its translation?”

Atheinah shoots him an equally ingratiating grin. “It didn’t rhyme in its original language at all, actually. The rhymes were just a coincidence.”

Har, har. I worked really hard on that, you know.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. No offense, but you don’t seem much of the poet type, Mr. Wright.” Aphollo holds the parchment up to Atheinah’s light in order to take a better look at it. “All right, Miss Spellcaster—you were able to read it. Now, what does it mean?”

“Heck if I know,” Atheinah says. “Sounds like a riddle. I’m no good at riddles.”

“You may be in the wrong profession.”

“If the answer to the riddle isn’t one-hundred percent obvious,” she says as she flashes Aphollo a peace-sign, “then you need to gather more evidence! Or, if worse comes to worst—present every piece of evidence on every possible piece of testimony and hope for the best!”

“Okay,” Aphollo says, effectively ignoring Atheinah’s entire joke, “I think I remember something like this being brought up earlier in the campaign. Didn’t Bettie mention something about an… orb? The Mother’s Orb, I believe?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one who wrote everything down.”

“She definitely did—I remember that it sounded really important.” Aphollo takes a step closer to the orb and bends down to inspect it. The misty clouds beneath its surface roll, and lightning crackles through their wispy fingers. “This fits the bill, don’t you think? It’s definitely an _orb_. And the riddle says the word ‘bestow,’ so… maybe it’s talking about bestowing power, like Bettie said?”

“Didn’t she say that it was only supposed to appear to those, like, pure of heart?” Atheinah asks.

“I think so.”

She waggles her eyebrows at him. “Heh-heh. Who do you want to bet was the ‘pure of heart’ one here, eh? Mr. _Paladin_?”

“Ex-excuse _you_! Who knows if Bettie was even right?! What would a vampire know about this kind of stuff, anyway?”

“Whatever, man—keep denying it,” Atheinah says. “Yoink.” 

She picks the orb off its base and measures the weight in her hands. She tosses it up into the air, then catches it close to her chest. 

Aphollo yelps. 

“What are you _doing_?!” he cries, clawing at his face. 

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking it, obviously.” She chuckles in the exact same way a fiend would—maybe she’s not _really_ contracted with the Fey. “If it’s really that thing Bettie mentioned, then we should take it, right? Sounds like it could come in handy! So I’m putting it in safe-keeping.” 

“Safe-keeping? _Juggling_ the thing does not count as _safe-keeping_!” 

“Nyeh-heh-heh. Well, if it would make you feel better, how about you hold onto it?” She extends her arm, holding the sphere out for Aphollo to take.

He does so, readily, and slips it, as well as the parchment with the riddle’s translation, into his bag. Hopefully the incredibly-precious-and-fragile-looking crystal orb won’t break there.

“Wow,” Atheinah marvels. “That actually worked. I just didn’t want to be the one responsible for breaking it.”

“Let’s get a move on,” Aphollo says as he snaps the final buckle of his equipment pack. “The sooner we get out of here, the better. We were working on a short time frame to begin with—we need to hurry.” 

Atheinah nods her head in agreement. “Right! Onward, to victor—hmm?” She suddenly faces away from Aphollo and looks off, towards the corner of the cavern. “Huh? Was that—there before?” 

Aphollo blinks. “What are you talking about?” He traces her line of sight, from her eyes to the corner of the room, where he sees—huh, that’s weird. 

He sees a chest. An unassuming, wooden chest, with a gold lock cinching it shut. 

“Did we see that when we came in?” he asks.

I don’t know, did you? 

Aphollo flips off a poor, innocent rock. 

“Well, let’s check that out, too!” Atheinah says, clapping her hands together. “The more treasure, the merrier, right? Heh-heh, we’re being spoiled!” 

“Yeah,” Aphollo says. “We are. Seems suspicious, in all honesty.” 

Atheinah doesn’t really seem to care, though. She gallivants across the cavern with a skip in her step, right up to the chest. She kneels down, and Aphollo can hear her say to herself: “Alrighty, buddy—you going to open up for me?” 

Surprisingly, it does. It opens wide. 

And then it bites down onto her arm. 

“…What?” 

The chest. It bites down. Onto Atheinah’s arm. 

She doesn’t seem to understand. She stares down at the chest, with its… _teeth_ … burrowing into her armor, and its… _tongue_ … running over the length of her arm. 

“… _What_?” she repeats. “What—huh—I— _eeek_!”  

Well, I guess it’s initiative time.  

 

* * *

 

The chest goes first, clamping hard on Atheinah’s arm. She screams and kicks at it, trying to bat it away. 

“What the heck is happening?!” she shrieks, voice shrill. “This chest just _bit_ me!” 

“I saw that.” Aphollo sounds like he’s trying to swallow a snicker. 

“This is no time to be laughing, Aphollo!” She whips her head around to glare at him personally. “What kind of place is this—?! What kind of chests just go around _biting_ people?!”  

“You’re not very genre-savvy, are you, Atheinah?” 

“Hey, what’s _that_ supposed to mean, buddy?” 

Aphollo draws his longsword from his sheath and approaches the creature. He scrutinizes it quickly: he knows enough about arcana and magical creatures to know what this thing is. He’s heard tales about them before, hiding in dungeons to munch on unsuspecting, stupid adventurers who loot every chest they come across. 

“A mimic,” he says, and takes a slash at it. He nicks it right in the wood, and the creature releases a high-pitched shriek. 

“M-mimic?” Atheinah doesn’t take a step back—too afraid of that attack of opportunity, apparently. “What’s a mimic?” 

“Exactly what it sounds like—a type of shapeshifter that lives in dungeons and preys off of wandering heroes.” He thinks about his own words for a handful of seconds. “Huh. That probably means that this area is well-traveled—by the heroic type, at least. I can’t believe the Queen didn’t know more about this. Seems like a hard thing to not know about.” 

“Smells fishy to me,” Atheinah agrees as she holds her arms out in front of her. She splays her gloved fingers, murmurs a handful of bewitched vowels, and channels her Fey magic through her blood and her nails. 

All of a sudden, heavenly fire weaves between her fingers and then strikes at the mimic in a dazzling lightning-bolt of crimson and gold. The mimic gnashes its teeth at the pain and lets out a long, otherworldly moan that makes Atheinah and Aphollo both shiver in disgust—

—But Aphollo can’t really see what happens next, since the light from Atheinah’s necklace snuffs out as soon as she casts her Sacred Flame. All he can see is darkness. 

“W-what?” He stumbles as he tries to find his footing. It’s difficult, though—he can hear the guttural noises from the mimic, as well as Atheinah’s panting, but the lack of _sight_ is pretty damning. His Perception is keen, even without his eyes… but he won’t be able to do much other than defend himself without a source of light. 

“Atheinah!” Aphollo cries into the darkness. “Why’d you turn off the light?!” 

“I had to!” Atheinah responds from his right. She’s close—he can feel her radiant presence. “I can’t just sit around and be your personal _lamp_! I have to fight, too—and I can’t cast two spells at once!” 

Aphollo groans. “Ugh. I need to bring out a torch or something, then. I guess I’ll use my action to—” 

Uh-uh-uh—you can use your action when it’s _your_ turn. But before that—the mimic rears back, gurgles for a few seconds, and then spits. At Atheinah. 

“It’s spitting at me now? Eww, gross!” 

When the spit lands on Atheinah’s armored shoulder, she realizes that it’s a lot more than just _gross_. The liquid hisses, bubbles—and then begins to burn away the armor, peeling it back like acid. 

“ _Yeowch_!” Atheinah tries to brush the spit off of her, but when her fingers graze over it, it only burns her more. “Wh-what the heck! This is awful!” 

“…Can I take out the torch _now_ , Mr. Wright?” 

Aphollo tucks his sword awkwardly half-back into its sheath, then reaches around for his equipment pack. He fumbles blindly in the blackness, trying to scout out what in his bag kind of feels like a torch…. 

“Seriously?” Aphollo mutters to himself. “I can’t even do this?” 

Hey, have you ever tried lighting a torch in complete darkness? It’s hard. If only Aphollo wasn’t a boring variant Human and an actual _fun_ race, maybe he would have Darkvision, and he wouldn’t be wiggling around like a drunk worm right about now. 

“There’s a lot of animosity in this room today, isn’t there?” 

“Look who’s talking,” Atheinah chirps. 

Despite being submerged in darkness, Aphollo’s ears are still as honed as ever. As he rummages through his pack, he keeps his attention focused on the movement of the mimic, and where it is in relation to him and Atheinah. But, as he listens in, he is also able to hear something else. Something… moving. 

His pores prick on end. “Atheinah? D-do you see anything?” 

“Huh?” Atheinah looks around her. She has Darkvision, but… Darkvision itself isn’t all that great in pitch blackness—everything is fuzzy. Still, she isn’t able to see anything else in the room.

“Then what exactly am I hearing…?” Aphollo asks himself. His hands finally wrap around what he has been searching for—a long, wooden torch—and he is able to light it. Unfortunately, he can’t swing a sword and carry a torch at the same time, so he isn’t able to do anything else on his turn. 

In the new light, Aphollo is able to see Atheinah standing near the growling mimic, still in a defensive pose. She points at the creature and shouts out a loud, “Eldritch Blast,” but the rainbow trill from her fingers misses the creature entirely. It lets out a mouthful of low grunts, as if laughing at her. 

“What a jerk!” Atheinah turns back to Aphollo. “Anyway, what was that you picked up on? You heard something moving?” She frowns. “But there’s nothing else in here. At least, not that I can see.” 

Indeed—Aphollo doesn’t see anything else suspicious in the room, either. Yet, his perceptive ears pick up on hints of something: there’s scraping of what sounds like armor on rocks, and tapping, and… no, it’s impossible to tell. The noise is being drowned out by the moaning of the mimic. 

Speaking of the mimic, it shimmies back a few steps (as best as it can, being a chest and all) before spitting another glob of acid saliva at Atheinah. It hits its mark on her leg, and it dissolves her armored kneepads. 

“Why is it only attacking me?!” She bends down and grips at her leg—the acid burned enough of the armor away to reveal her skin, ugly and red and twisting. It must have singed pretty deeply. “Ugh… I’m running low on health. Aphollo, you need to do something!” 

“What am I supposed to do?” Aphollo asks, giving her a sidelong glare. “I can’t put down the torch, or else I won’t be able to see—so I can’t heal you. But I can’t attack, either, because I _can’t put down the torch_!” He rakes a hand through his hair, his horns frizzing at the motion. “What are we going to do…? It doesn’t even look all that hurt!” 

The mimic sticks out its tongue and blows them a raspberry. Atheinah and Aphollo’s left eyebrows both twitch at exactly the same time. 

“I feel like we’re kind of screwed,” Atheinah says. “Ugh. We need the other members of the party! Two just isn’t enough!” She taps at her chin as she mulls over the possibilities in her brain. “Maybe if we shout _really_ loudly, they’ll hear us and come running!” 

“So might every other monster in the joint,” says Aphollo. “Should we run away?” 

“I ain’t no coward, Justlight! Besides, even if we run… the thing’s just going to follow us, isn’t it? It’s hungry!” 

Aphollo breathes out a quiet curse. She’s right—he doesn’t know if they can outrun the mimic. If it can spit acid projectiles at them, then they were as good as gone. Aphollo is a sitting duck, with his torch in his hand, and Atheinah is already badly injured…. 

They were, pretty much, screwed. This is why you _don’t split the party_. 

…Unfortunately, you guys aren’t the ones who get to learn that lesson. 

Aphollo hears that same scratching noise again. It’s louder, now—closer. He turns towards it, but all he sees is empty, dim space. 

He pulls his lip back in an annoyed grimace. “Okay, seriously. What the heck is happening?” 

_Skritch, scratch_. There’s a padding noise, too—like booted feet on rock, running. Jumping. And then— 

The mimic cries out as a bright blade slashes it from behind. There’s a form there, wielding that blade—humanoid, shrouded in shadow. When the torchlight dances up its frame and over its face, there’s a chuckle. For, in all his glory, the form is revealed to be….

Well, it’s somebody the heroes don’t recognize.

But the players, however, _do_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhHHOH a CLIFFHANGER... OH NO... WHO COULD IT BEEEEEEEEE  
> and i wonder what the answer to that stupid riddle is. hmm. HMM.
> 
> ...I didn't mention this the last time, but we're going to be in this session for. A While. so please mentally prepare yourselves now aaaaahaha
> 
> I hope everything's going well for all of you! Here's wishing you all a happy Valentine's Day, later on in the week. May your romances be more fruitful than Apollo's is at the current moment.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!!!


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh, you’ve gotta be _kidding_ me.” 

As if on shoddily rehearsed cue, Prosecutor Simon Blackquill burst through the door of the Wright Anything Agency, just as Mr. Wright finished describing the mysterious figure in the campaign. He loomed heavy in the doorway, a self-satisfied smile twirling the corners of his steely lips. 

“Am I late?” he asked. His voice was deep and husky, and as per usual, he growled every word he spoke. He definitely sounded like a prison convict—at least, how they sounded in the movies. Apollo knew that real murderers usually weren’t so comical.

He, meanwhile, was still busy gawking. 

Blackquill’s laughter was not kind. “You were quite right, Cykes-dono,” he said, looking past Apollo and over to Athena. “The look on Justice-dono’s face made this whole ridiculous scenario worth it.” 

Athena guiltily ran her fingers through her long strands of hair. “Eh-heh. It wasn’t my idea, you know—it was Mr. Wright’s! Thank him, not me.” 

“I didn’t agree to it because I wanted to bully Apollo,” Mr. Wright said. Apollo couldn’t read his expression from beyond the Dungeon Master’s screen, but he didn’t have to: he knew exactly what kind of smug-ass smirk he was wearing. “I wanted to surprise everyone, but they just _had_ to split the party. How are they doing out there, by the way?” 

Blackquill closed the door behind him and made his way into the center of the room. He was in his normal courtroom attire: long, black-and-white jacket flowing down to his knees, slim slacks, and tied-back, volumized hair. Apollo would’ve made a snarky comment about it, but… he was still wearing his trademark red suit, so he couldn’t point any fingers. 

“They were shocked, to say the least.” Blackquill huffed and blew a loose strand of hair away from his face. Apollo’s eyes went to his shoulder—no bird. Thank god. “I recognized Gavin-dono and Little Wright-dono, but I don’t know the other one.” 

Athena looked like she wanted to stand up and greet him, but Blackquill collapsed onto the floor before she could get the chance. Instead, she was left to stir awkwardly on the floor, torn between scooting closer to him or remaining in her spot. 

“That’s Ema Skye, a forensic investigator for the police department—though she was a detective until recently,” Mr. Wright explained. “She’s a very frank woman. You’ll like her.” 

“We shall see,” Blackquill said. Apollo hadn’t realized it before, but he was carrying a folder under his arm. He opened it, drew out three sheets of paper, and—oh. 

“…So you’ve had this planned for a while, now?” Apollo asked as he eyed Blackquill’s already-completed character sheet. 

“We’ve had it planned ever since the Crawlnober case wrapped up!” Athena said. “I was chatting to Simon after the trial, and I let slip that we were playing. And, well—he invited himself along!” 

That explained why Athena had been acting suspiciously. Mr. Wright, too. And here Apollo thought that they were planning something important—silly him. 

He narrowed his eyes at Blackquill. The prosecutor caught the motion, and he returned the glare in kind. Apollo got the feeling that Blackquill’s look was a lot more _intimidating_ than his own. 

“I am no stranger to games of this variety,” Prosecutor Blackquill said. “I wanted to play—so thus, I will.” 

Apollo wondered if they had _Dungeons and Dragons_ in prison. Or was it taboo to mention that about Blackquill? Too soon? He had never interacted with the man outside of court—and Athena clammed up about that part of his life, so he never heard much out of her, either. 

Blackquill must’ve picked up on Apollo’s inner dialogue, for he said, “I had a life before my sentence. I was not always a convict.” 

He wasn’t sure if playing _Dungeons and Dragons_ qualified as _having a life_. 

“Biting,” Blackquill muttered, “coming from _you_ , Paladin-dono.” 

Apollo squeaked.

“Anyway,” Mr. Wright said, swiftly butting into their conversation, “thanks for joining us. I hope that my DMing skills meet your expectations. None of these guys have played before, so I’m allowed to get away with a little bit of… bluffing.”

“Considering how well your bluffs hold up in court, I won’t bother to hold my breath.” Blackquill let himself relax into a more comfortable position on the carpet—lying down on his right side, propping himself up with his elbow.

Athena glared at him. “Simon! Mr. Wright let you play out of the goodness of his heart! The least you could do is _thank_ him!”

“ _Rude!_ ” added Widget.

Prosecutor Blackquill snorted. “Don’t mistake my frankness for disrespect, Cykes-dono. I live my life honestly—there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Or would you rather I lie?”

Athena bit her tongue.

Apollo sensed that she wanted to speak with Blackquill a little more: she kept glancing over at him and nursing her bottom lip. It was starting to redden with how fiercely she was nibbling at it. Odd—Apollo thought that the two spoke to each other often… did they have some sort of fight?

“All right, then. Shall we get back to the game?”

He didn’t have time to think about it, though. For, as soon as Mr. Wright started speaking again, his tone pinged with the drama of his courtroom charm, and Apollo found himself whisked back into that dark mountain cavern within a single beat of his lashes.

 

* * *

As soon as the blow from the unknown blade strikes the mimic, it screams in ear-splitting pain. Its body—that being the outside of its chest—starts to congeal and melt, as if made from goo. The color fades, the corners dull, and its shape twists and warps until it hardly has a shape left.

Left in the chest’s place is nothing but a puddle of black, bubbling gunk. It reeks of a smell like parsley and poison, patchouli and petroleum.

The wielder of the blade sheathes his weapon, satisfied with his work. From the dim light of the torch, Atheinah and Aphollo can perceive the newcomer’s form. He’s a tall, broad man, garbed in a dark cloak.

There are two strange things about him that the duo notice immediately. The first of which is that, on the man’s right shoulder, there’s a _bird_. A hawk, it looks like, with brown feathers, narrowed beak, and a little black scarf tied around its neck. They don’t have to be proficient in Nature to know that hawks don’t usually live in caves—nor do they have to be skilled in Animal Handling to realize that the hawk seems pretty well-trained. It doesn’t move from its roost on the man’s shoulder, even as he rounds on Atheinah and Aphollo.

The second thing they realize is that the man is no ordinary _man_. His ears are long and pointed, reminiscent of Eyma’s—but the difference lies in the pigmentation of his skin. His ears, as well as the rest of his body, are the color of iris hearts—light lavender, speckled with frecks of indigo. His hair alternates shade between night-black and moon-white—an uncommon color combination, and most likely not dyed.

Aphollo and Atheinah know who—or _what_ —this guy is. He’s a Drow—one of the banished Elves from deep within the Underdark.

And he’s not a happy-looking Drow, either.

“What,” he growls, dark eyes flashing in the torchlight, “are _you_ two doing here?”

Aphollo and Atheinah both emit a tiny _meep_ and scamper to each other’s sides.

“W-we could ask you that same question!” Atheinah says. She points an accusatory finger, as if to threaten him—but it’s trembling. “Who are you?!”

In response, the Drow brings his fingers to his lips. He whistles—a long, piercing noise—and then—

“Ghhhack—!”

—His hawk takes off his shoulder and lands on Atheinah’s head.

“I will ask the questions,” the Drow says. “Now, I reiterate: what are you two doing here?”

The hawk’s talons are sharp, and despite it not actively _attacking_ Atheinah, they still hurt. It’s amazing how it was resting so peacefully on the Drow’s shoulder—maybe he’s wearing shoulder pads. Or maybe he’s not as much of a wimp as Atheinah.

“I-I’m not a wimp!” Atheinah cries, raising her hands to her head. “And get this stupid bird off of me!”

“How dare you speak that way to Thoron.”

With another whistle from the Drow, the bird—named Thoron, apparently—digs its nails deeper into Atheinah’s scalp. She blubbers in both anger and pain.

“Hey! Calm down, would you?” Aphollo sets his one free hand onto his hip. “We’re explorers, that’s all!”

The Drow pulls his teeth back in a snarl. Aphollo swears that the guy has _fangs_ , but he doesn’t know enough about Drow to tell if that’s normal.

“Explorers who plunder sacred tombs in order to hunt for treasure are no _explorers_ ,” he says. “They are thieves.”

“Thieves?” Aphollo frowns. “We didn’t come for the treasure. It’s just—uh.” His defensive stance sags, and his back slouches. “It’s kind of a long story, and I’m not sure if you’d believe us. And, uh—I’m doubly not sure if I should go around telling strange men in dungeons our life story.”

The Drow must have found some sort of humor in that, for the smallest hint of a smirk cracks his ashen lips. He nods his head, and with the motion, Thoron releases its tight grip on Atheinah’s head and flaps back to his shoulder.

“My name is Simyn Belak’kwil,” the Drow says. “Ranger, from the deep. During the past few years, though, I’ve been serving as a member of the Cur’ainese Secret Guard.”

In contrast to Aphollo, Belak’kwil doesn’t have any qualms with telling strange men in dungeons his life story.

“Goodie,” Aphollo says.

Belak’kwil ignores him. He clears his throat before continuing: “Well, I _was_ a member of the Secret Guard. But… I grew weary of the deceit and the trickery. I will not offer my service to unlawful people, royals or not.”

Aphollo’s eyebrow twitches. “I can tell that you have a lot written about your backstory, but could you maybe—uh—give us the abridged version? I-I’m sure it’s very fascinating, but… we have to find the other members of the party, and—”

“I heard murmurings in the castle corridors,” Belak’kwil says, cutting Aphollo off. “Rumors, you might say, during the months leading up to the wedding. As a member of the Secret Guard, I was privy to select information handpicked by the Queen herself. However, through the grapevine, I heard something odd: something about a dragon.”

“Wait a second,” Aphollo says, “you’re relevant to the _plot_? Did you conspire over text message or something?” He smirks. “Late-night booty calls, Mr. Wright?”

Rocks fall, and everyone dies.

“As I was _saying_.” Eep. Belak’kwil doesn’t take kindly to being interrupted. “I knew the stories of Amarah, but I always thought them to be fairytales. I wondered—why were the royals discussing an old story so often? And why, on Lolth’s dark world, was it being treated as some sort of great secret?”

“Amarah?” Aphollo repeats. “Who?”

Belak’kwil huffs at him. “Boy, where do you think you are?”

“Uh, Dragon’s Deep? Where do _you_ think we are?”

“That’s the ancient name for this place, yes, back when the shadow dragon was still alive. But now, it is but her tomb—or so the legends say.”

“Oh. Amarah is the name of the dragon? The dead one?”

“Correct.” Belak’kwil reaches back to scratch under his bird’s chin. Thoron makes a soft cooing noise, and its eyes close. “Stories tell of a great dragon who used to reside in these mountains long ago. She was a kind, graceful beast, and was regarded as a queen in herself—not by the Humans, but by the Dragonborn who live out to the east.”

Aphollo straightens at that. “Wait, wh-what? Dragonborn?” He winces, and he plays with the two hair spikes on his head. “Th-that was just something I made up on the spot, Mr. Wright. I didn’t mean for you to, uh, work it into the plot or anything….”

“None of that matters, now that Amarah’s dead,” Belak’kwil says. “Her reign was a long time ago—so long, nobody can remember if it happened at all. Queen Gha’ran is the only ruler now.” He scoffs, and Thoron opens one eye to look at him. “But the whispers around the castle about Amarah… they were odd. They spoke as if the dragon were a present threat. As in, _alive_. And when pressed on the matter, nobody could give me a straight answer as to why.”

Atheinah hums. Her hair is a little messy from where Thoron pulled it undone with its talons. “Well, we definitely saw a dragon. That’s why we’re here—to investigate whether or not our dragon was the dragon from Dragon’s Deep.”

“That is, more or less, the same reason I am here,” Belak’kwil says. “After not receiving a straight answer, I came to investigate the matter personally. I wanted to see if the rumors were true.” He hesitates his scratching for a second or two. “To witness a legend in reality—what an honor that would be.”

“So you _didn’t_ come to investigate,” Atheinah mutters. “You came to geek out about a children’s story.”

“If you wanted to see a dragon, you should’ve just stuck around at Capi’tohl,” says Aphollo with pursed lips.

“It appeared at the castle?” His eyes narrow. “What type of dragon was it?”

“Shadow,” Aphollo recalls. “I think. That’s what we deduced, anyway. It was black and breathing fire, so….”

“If you saw fire, then it couldn’t have been a shadow dragon.”

Aphollo blinks at him.

“Shadow dragons don’t _breathe_ fire. They breathe shadow. Obviously.”

“How edgy.”

“They are dangerous beasts,” Belak’kwil says, clenching his teeth. “But the fact remains—if you saw it breathing fire, then it was no shadow dragon. A black dragon, perhaps?”

Aphollo shrugs. “I have no idea. I think it was Eyma who made the check, maybe? And then it was confirmed by Queen Gha’ran later on.”

Belak’kwil closes his eyes, and a heavy, pensive breath shakes his lungs and chest. “I came here to discover answers, yet I found none. Pah! Not that it matters, considering that we’re stuck down here.”

Atheinah perks up a little at that. “Stuck?” she asks. “Do you not know your way out, Simyn?”

“If I knew my way out, why would I still be here? I’ve been in this labyrinth for weeks.”

Both Aphollo and Atheinah draw back, their faces falling.

“W-weeks?” Aphollo parrots. “How are you—still—?”

“I come from the Underdark, so navigating under the surface is child’s play,” Belak’kwil says with a short-tempered breath. “And I’ve stayed alive thanks to Goodberry.”

Gotta love Goodberry. No Ranger is complete without it.

Belak’kwil’s lips twitch upwards into something that maybe, just maybe, could constitute a smile. “Even though it’s not easy for me to lose my way in my terrain of expertise, the layout of the labyrinth keeps shifting.” And—ah, the look is gone. Back to the scowl. “Paths change. Rooms are created, then destroyed. For example—I have never once seen this room before. Surely I would’ve recognized that altar.”

Aphollo clicks his tongue. “That doesn’t sound good for us. We need to find the rest of our group, too.”

“I’m the one who suggested we split the party,” Atheinah sighs. “I blame myself.”

As you should.

“M-Mr. Wright, you’re so harsh…!”

“However.” Belak’kwil stalks forward, towards the exit of the cavern—where Aphollo and Atheinah had initially entered. He presses his ear against the rocky wall and cranes his head, as if trying to listen for something. His face is pulled in concentration. “Something has changed.”

Aphollo and Atheinah look at him, blankly.

“The labyrinth has changed, but this time—perhaps, it was not for the worse.” He nods his head. “Yes… I sense something. An air current.”

“Air current?” Atheinah’s smile finally returns to her face. “You mean, like, an exit?! That’s great news! Okay—lead the way!”

Belak’kwil hums. “I suppose I can’t leave you here to fend for yourselves, can I? No—you’d both die, surely. If you can’t even handle a mimic….”

“Hey,” Aphollo butts in, “we would’ve been fine if there was more light.”

“Light,” Belak’kwil scoffs, “is unnecessary. I _thrive_ in the darkness, Paladin.” His eyes, as well as Thoron’s, glitter like jewels in the blackness of the cavern. “I suggest you make yourself comfortable with it.”

Aphollo swallows uneasily and takes a step back, effectively putting Atheinah in between him and the Ranger.

Belak’kwil smirks, perhaps a little cruelly—and then he turns his back on the two and stalks into the darkness. His footsteps are silent.

“Come,” he says over his shoulder, “and tread lightly. Only Lolth knows what dwells in the dark belly of the mountains.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I'm back! Sorry about that lapse -- I had family over two weeks ago that prevented me from doing anything, and then last week was midterms, so I was super busy. It's spring break now, though! Woo-hoo! I'll try to catch up with this over the week, but... I just got the new Zelda, so I might be. uh. engaged. we'll see
> 
> Taka/Thoron is a beefed up version of a normal hawk. Can’t have an animal companion flying around with one hit point, right? Also, “Thoron” is the Elvish word for “eagle”! Apparently! I couldn’t find the word for “hawk,” and I couldn’t find any sort of Drow (Undercommon? ehhhh who knows) dictionary, period, so... yeah. I tried.
> 
> Thank you so, so, sooooo much for reading! Really, just... thanks, from the bottom of my heart.


	16. Chapter 16

Prosecutor Blackquill was getting _really_ into this. It was scary how well he captured the “essence” of his character—Apollo was actually getting kind of intimidated by him. Then again, that may have had something to do with the fact that he was pretty intimidated by Blackquill to begin with.

Mr. Wright went quiet for a few moments before he coughed into his fist and peeked around his DM’s screen to meet Apollo’s gaze.

“We’ve been with you guys for some time,” he said, offering Apollo a smile. “I think it’s time for the groups to swap.”

Apollo blinked. “Really? Oh.” He guessed that it had been a little while, but… he didn’t feel like they had gotten much done. They found the weird orb thing, he supposed, and they met, well, _Blackquill_ , but….

Mr. Wright’s smile grew the tiniest bit smugger. “I know it’s a lot of fun, Apollo, but you have to let the other kids have their turn.”

Apollo had never stood up faster in his life.

Athena and Prosecutor Blackquill also got to their feet. Athena stretched out her limbs—her neck cracked with an ugly noise, and Blackquill’s lips pulled back in a wince.

“…That wasn’t long at all,” Blackquill half-grumbled, eyeing Athena in disgust.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Mr. Wright scratched the back of his head, running his fingers through his gelled-up hair. “The other three shouldn’t take long at all, though. Then once you guys get back together, we can wrap this shindig up.”

Apollo dared not look at the time. He knew it would only depress him.

“Okay!” Athena said, beaming brightly. “Wrap it up quick, Mr. Wright! I want to get back to the action as soon as possible!”

Mr. Wright chuckled. “I’ll try my best. Hey—could you tell the other three that they can come in for me? And would you wait outside for a little while, please? I’m sure you understand—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Apollo muttered. Mr. Wright didn’t want them cheating. He supposed he could understand that, but… leaving the room felt unnecessary. Besides, the walls were so thin, he was sure that the group outside could hear their adventure with crystal clarity.

He didn’t have the courage to ruin Mr. Wright’s mojo, though. And, even though his request was ludicrous, Apollo had a hunch that—if he called him out on it—the rest of the group would take Mr. Wright’s side. Just a hunch.

Apollo headed over to the door to the hallway and threw it open with a louder-than-necessary _bang_. Trucy, Ema, and Klavier were situated on the floor near the doorway, and each one of them jumped out of their skins at the noise.

“Polly!” Trucy cried, smile nuclear. “You’re finally finished!” She pushed herself up to her feet and immediately galloped over to him. Her spirits seemed to have picked back up: when she had left the room earlier, she had looked close to tears. Apollo supposed that it had been a decent chunk of time since then, but….

God, he felt guilty. He wasn’t sure what had come over him, but he had actually snapped at Trucy. He had never _snapped_ at Trucy before—at least, not with so much malice. All of her teasing, though, had made him embarrassed; and when he got embarrassed, he tended to get loud. And angry.

That wasn’t Trucy’s fault, he knew, nor was it anybody else’s—it was his own stupid heart getting caught in his throat. His own stupid _pride_ that demanded he keep it safe at all times.

Ugh, seeing Trucy had made his thoughts muddle. He wasn’t sure how to properly articulate the apology stirring in his mind. Should he ask to speak to her privately…? Should he do it in front of everyone else? In front of Klavier, Ema, Athena? Oh, Christ—in front of _Prosecutor Blackquill_?

His stomach was starting to feel queasy. There it was again—that churning, awful, shameful feeling of complete and utter embarrassment.

Trucy must’ve caught his pathetic look, for her smile dulled and her voice grew soft.

“Sorry for being mean to you earlier,” she said. “I was only playing around. I wasn’t expecting you to—”

“ _No_ ,” Apollo cut her off, maybe a little too loud. He swallowed thickly and tried to calm himself down: “I mean, uh—I’m the one who should be apologizing, not you. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Trucy clamped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t say that! I was way out of line! I totally deserved it!”

“No, Trucy, you didn’t! I was the one who—”

“—No, it was me! If I hadn’t been so stupid, then—”

“—Don’t say stuff like that—!”

“—What do you mean? I’m only telling the—!”

“Oh my god, this is insufferable.”

The sighed comment came from Ema, who had gotten to her feet and was now standing with her hand planted firm on her jutting hip. Her foot was tapping, making tiny _click-clack_ noises on the carpet. “You’ve made up: hurray. Let’s get a move on—I don’t want to be here until midnight again.”

Trucy blinked a few times, before her smile returned to her face in full force. “She’s right! We have to get a move on!” She tipped her silk hat, gave Apollo a wink, and then slipped by him and into the open doorway. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked!”

Ema huffed, then followed Trucy inside. After she had passed, Athena and Blackquill sauntered out of the Agency and into the main hallway. They both wore concerned looks—they had probably heard what had been said from inside the office.

And then there was Klavier.

It took Klavier a little while to stand up completely. He moved like Atlas, with the world heavy on his shoulders. His eyes were downcast, and his expression unreadable.

It would’ve been unreadable, anyway, if Apollo hadn’t known him. But he _did_ know Klavier, and he knew that for somebody as open as he, an empty expression was the most telling of all.

“I should say sorry to you, too,” Apollo said, quietly.

Klavier finally met his eyes. “What for, Herr Forehead?” And—oh, scratch that whole _empty expression_ thing. The _worst_ face Klavier could possibly muster? The one that made Apollo’s teeth clench and his heart summersault in agony? It was that fake, paparazzi smile—the one that smelled like plastic.

God, it made Apollo angry. It made him angry that Klavier had the _nerve_ to think that he would fall for his fakeness, even for a second. Who did he think he was? Surely he had caught onto Apollo’s power of observation. He wasn’t _stupid_.

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Apollo growled, and—oh. That wasn’t the best apology in the world, was it?

Klavier flinched, then let his smile fall back into his stone-faced, neutral expression.

“I was only trying to be polite,” he said, voice surprisingly even.

“You’re allowed to get mad at me, you know.”

“Now why, pray tell, would I be mad at you, Herr Forehead?”

Apollo’s frown deepened, and his arms crossed over his chest. He was sure Athena and Blackquill were behind him, sharing amused looks with one another, making fun of him behind his back—

No, he told himself. Athena understood. She was loud and annoying and kind of oblivious, but she most certainly _understood_. There was no need to be embarrassed. These were his _friends_. Clay never would have made fun of him like that, would he? He would’ve teased him, sure, but it would’ve been in good fun. He knew—had known—Clay well enough to realize that he meant no harm.

He would never have snapped at Clay.

“You’re being passive-aggressive, Prosecutor Gavin,” Apollo said. “I’m sorry. It—why I was angry… it might’ve sounded like it was about you, but it wasn’t. It could’ve been about anything, and I still would’ve overreacted.”

Because he was, at the end of the day, not used to this. He wasn’t used to spending his Friday nights with friends, playing stupid games about stupid dungeons and stupid dragons. He had forgotten what it felt like.

He remembered Athena’s words, Ema’s words: everybody there, in the Wright Anything Agency that night, was important to him. They were his friends. Trucy, Athena, Ema—even Mr. Wright, ten years his senior and his goddamn _boss_ , was his friend. Klavier was his friend.

…Maybe Prosecutor Blackquill (oh god— _Simon_?) was his friend, too. Uh. He was kind of a new addition to this equation of his. But, damn it—Apollo should be at least willing to give him a _chance_.

Klavier studied Apollo’s face. His gaze flickered from Apollo’s forehead down to his lips, to his chest. It took him a while to find his voice.

“I’m not angry at you,” he murmured. His accent was thick. “I could never be angry with you over such a petty thing.”

“Petty—?” Apollo wondered if he should’ve taken offense at that.

Klavier ambled forward, one hand tucked into his pocket, and then gave Apollo a soft _flick_ with the index finger of his other. Despite it being soft, Klavier’s hands were heavy, and… jeez, that _hurt_!

“Ye- _yeowch_!” Apollo reached up to cradle the point of impact. Surely it had left a mark: a big, bright mark, if he had to wager a guess. With hands that heavy, how the hell did Klavier not break every guitar he touched? “I didn’t give you permission to _assault_ me!”

“Did you not? Hmm.” Klavier threaded a hand through his blonde bangs. His fingers were shaking, but only slightly. “Do you want me to kiss it better?”

…Well, if Klavier _was_ nervous, or if his feelings _were_ hurt, it wasn’t bad enough to warrant any change in his actual mood. Maybe that was the problem, Apollo thought—that Klavier didn’t want to deal with his emotions, so he defaulted to his normal, flirty personality.

There wasn’t time to discuss that just then, though. Besides, emotions were more of Athena’s thing. Apollo wasn’t licensed to perform therapy.

Instead, all that Apollo could find within himself to say was a short, huffy: “Go play the stupid game.”

Klavier winked at him. “You got it, _liebe_. Herr Bard will come to Herr Paladin’s rescue soon, ja?”

And with that, he strode around Apollo, past the awkwardly-milling Athena and Prosecutor Blackquill (who Klavier looked at once, nodded his head, and avoided eye contact as quickly as physically possible) and into the main office of the Wright Anything Agency. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Why, hello! You actually decided to join us!” Mr. Wright’s booming voice carried clear as day through the thin plaster. “And here I thought we’d have to continue without you while you two worked out your lover’s spat.”

Apollo’s bones went rigid. Nope, he didn’t need to listen to that. Not today.

He turned around to face Athena and Prosecutor Blackquill. They both looked uncomfortable: Athena seemed like she wanted to say something, and Blackquill looked like he wanted to get the hell out of dodge. The awkwardness was palpable.

“I’m using the bathroom,” Apollo announced, then hurried off down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

The awkwardness hadn’t subsided by the time Apollo returned. Blackquill and Athena had situated themselves on the floor, backs resting against the wall closest to the office. They were both brooding in silence, though the chattering, laughing, and gasping from within the main office kept the mood from becoming too eerie.

Apollo wondered if they were trying to metagame.

He took a seat beside Athena, because like _hell_ he was going to plant himself right next to Prosecutor Blackquill.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, wheedling the volume of his voice down to a whisper. If they could hear Mr. Wright out here, then the other group could most certainly hear them in there. Yet Apollo hadn’t remembered being able to hear anybody’s conversation when he had been playing before—and he was sure that it had to have been lively, what with Ema nestled between her two favorite people and Blackquill’s sudden appearance. He’d been too enraptured by the game, apparently.

“Huh?” Athena’s back straightened and she blinked, as if she hadn’t seen Apollo coming. “Oh. Umm, I haven’t been paying attention.”

So she and Blackquill had been lost in their own thoughts. That was a good sign. (Not.)

“That wasn’t what I was referring to,” he said as he adjusted himself against the wall. He was trying to get comfortable, but the effort quickly proved itself to be futile—the carpet was stiff and sharp, and the texture of the walls rough.

He took a glance at Prosecutor Blackquill out of the corner of his eye. He was slumped back against the wall, legs spread out in front of him, eyes closed, and hands folded behind his head. Apollo could imagine him chewing on a toothpick or smoking a cigarette, or whatever it was that cool, mopey samurais did.

Blackquill must’ve sensed Apollo’s attention on him, for he lazily opened one eye. Apollo flinched and pressed himself flat against the wall.

“Nice company you brought, _Athena_ ,” he hissed into her ear.

“You’re one to talk,” she snapped back.

“I didn’t invite Klavier— _you_ did, remember? And besides, he’s more, anyway.”

“You two are atrocious at whispering,” Blackquill said between his teeth, and the duo of defense attorneys both squawked.

“Ah—ah, well….” Athena’s shoulders shrugged. “He has a point, Simon. You’re not exactly the most, uh, _personable_ guy.”

Blackquill rarely smiled, Apollo had noticed. He _smirked_ , on the other hand, all the goddamn time. “Would you prefer I act more like Gavin-dono— _Fräulein Cykes_?” He pronounced the word “Fräulein” like he was ordering an unsavory dish at an already unpleasant restaurant.

“Good god, don’t ever say that again,” Athena muttered, moving a hand up to rub at her temples.

“Then you will refrain from commenting on my attitude.” Blackquill crossed one leg over the other. “I will act in the manner I please.”

“B-but you’re around people you don’t know very well,” Athena said. “It wouldn’t hurt to be a little polite, would it? Mr. Wright is going through a lot of effort to organize this thing….”

“Pah! You want me to thank him for volunteering to dungeon-master a mediocre campaign? Ridiculous! A _mimic_ —honestly, who plays mimics _straight_ these days?”

Apollo got the impression that Blackquill didn’t _really_ care that much about what he was saying. Okay—the mimic thing might’ve been truthful, but the other part… Apollo could tell by the twitching of his lips that he was probably just trying to get under Athena’s skin.

He appeared to be succeeding.

“Mediocre?! How dare you!” Athena clenched both of her hands into fists. Apollo tensed himself, ready to hold her back if she started to wind up a blow. “Mr. Wright worked really hard on this, and he worked really hard to make you important to the story! You should be grateful!”

Blackquill rolled his eyes. “That’s standard procedure. I suppose you wouldn’t know, since you’re so inexperienced.”

Truly, being called inexperienced at _Dungeons and Dragons_ was the biggest insult anybody could hurl.

“Why, you—!”

“Hey,” Apollo interrupted, “where’s your bird?”

Blackquill broke eye contact with Athena, easily ignoring her (“Hey! Look at me when I’m talking to you, buddy!”).

“Taka?” He hummed. “She’s with her birdsitter. She gets flustered when there are too many people in cramped quarters.”

Birdsitter. Cute.

“Don’t we all,” Apollo said, absentmindedly fondling his gold bangle. He couldn’t say he missed the bird—he had been attacked enough times by it to have developed ornithophobia. Especially since the thing would always attack him when his bracelet was acting up: it took him a while to undo the Pavlovian conditioning of associating his bracelet with pure, feathered _pain_.

Blackquill’s eyes honed in on Apollo’s bangle, and he raised his eyebrows. “People often act out-of-character when they’re nervous,” he said, meeting Apollo’s gaze with such ferocity, Apollo accidentally bit his tongue.

“A-are you calling your bird a person?” he asked, covering his mouth with his hand.

“They also act out-of-character,” Blackquill’s eyes narrowed, “when they have something to hide.”

Apollo guessed that was a jab aimed at him.

Athena cleared her throat.

“I don’t like being talked over,” she grumbled. “Or around, for that matter.”

Prosecutor Blackquill maintained eye contact with Apollo for what felt like a second too long, before he huffed out a contemptuous snort and settled back against the wall.

“I suppose it’s not any of my business.”

Damn straight it wasn’t.

“Don’t pick on Apollo when you have so many of your own issues to work out,” Athena said. “I mean. Don’t you want to—you know. Shouldn’t we….” Her voice lowered. “Talk, more?”

“Talk? I believe we have discussed everything immediately important. Unless you have some other topic worth broaching? The weather, perhaps?”

“Don’t pull that with me—you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” Athena accused, auburn eyebrows furrowing. “We haven’t spoken at all lately, have we? I was surprised you even agreed to come to this, considering how often you ignore my calls.”

“Considering you don’t call often to begin with, it’s quite easy.”

“At least I’m trying!”

…This was awkward.

Apollo didn’t particularly enjoy being chucked headfirst into people’s emotional issues. He had pulled his bathroom card too early, damn it—going now would just make him look stupid.

Athena’s lips pulled back in a scowl. “You know as well as I do that we’re not talking as often as we should be. It’s important to _keep_ talking, even after the initial issue has been confronted. Otherwise… ah.” Her words got caught in her throat, and she had to cough to jostle them lose. “Otherwise, the progress made will be for naught.”

“Don’t quote your pseudo-psychology at _me_ , Cykes-dono.” Now _there_ was an unreadable expression if Apollo had ever seen one—Apollo didn’t know Blackquill nearly well enough to determine what that thin-lipped, soft-eyed, blank look could mean.

“Well, if you’re so _smart_ ,” Athena said, knuckles whitening, “then why aren’t _you_ trying, too?”

“Excuse me, but what exactly do you think I’m _doing_ here?”

“I have to pee again,” Apollo proclaimed, scrambling to get up. Before he could make it, though, Athena grabbed his forearm and yanked him back down onto the floor.

“Apollo, you’re my anchor! You can’t go anywhere!” She didn’t waste much energy on him—in an instant, her rage was back to being aimed squarely at Blackquill. “And what are you playing at, Simon?”

Blackquill rolled his eyes, complete with a roll of his head. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? Figure it out.”

“You—!”

“If I wanted to get my roleplaying fill, I would’ve done so in a less complicated manner. I also would’ve chosen a better game for the task.” He scoffed and tapped at his temple. “Fifth Edition, _heh_. Fifth Edition is for greenhorns. I would’ve chosen _Pathfinder_ —now _that_ is a warrior’s game.”

It was so, so hard for Apollo to resist making a snide comment. Oh, _so hard_.

Athena still wasn’t thrilled: she crossed her arms over her chest and clutched at the fabric of her jacket. “So you came here to apologize? Is that it?”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Blackquill said. “I came because I felt it was time we talked. As you said before, Cykes-dono….” His smirk widened. “…It is important to _keep_ talking.”

“Wait, are you saying I’m right? _What_?”

“Your comment was correct, but your methods of acting on your word are poor, at best. I think we could both do a little better, couldn’t you?”

Athena’s blue eyes fell from Blackquill’s face towards the cream carpet.

“I guess I’ve been avoiding you too, haven’t I…?” she whispered.

Apollo only half-knew what was going on.

He knew that Athena and Blackquill had a long, complicated relationship—one that he had inadvertently wedged himself into during _that case_ a year ago. All of their skeletons had been laid out in a court of law, but… Apollo didn’t know where their relationship had _went_ after that. Athena mentioned Blackquill in passing conversation, sure, so he had been under the impression that they spoke to one another often. However, if this dialogue was anything to go by, that wasn’t the case.

Why, he thought? Well, that was a stupid question. He could easily imagine _why_ : the memories were painful. Blackquill’s face must have been painful for Athena—and to Blackquill, Athena’s. Apollo got that. He felt that same pain every time Athena so much as twitched in a white lie.

He wondered: if Athena hadn’t been his coworker, what would his relationship with her be? He had accused her of _murder_ , for Christ’s sake. All in the name of the truth, of course, but was the truth more important than friendship? Love?

He dwelled on that thought often, whenever sleepless nights plagued him with memories of Clay, Athena, Kristoph. He’d always arrive at the same conclusion, though:

_That it is. That it, without a shadow of a doubt,_ is _._

Klavier’s face hurt him, too. And he wasn’t Apollo’s coworker—he wasn’t forced to see him every day, to encounter his problems head-on. And what had happened to their relationship?

Well, they didn’t _have_ one, did they? Not until recently, anyway. The memories made Apollo’s heart stutter and flip and choke—and thus, he ran. He would’ve done the same with Athena, if he had been given the option: he would’ve locked her away in a dark corner of his mind, to rot along with Klavier and Khura’in.

“It isn’t healthy to run away from yourself,” Athena whispered to no one. “I know this. I tell people this. But it’s just so _easy_ to flee, rather than stand and fight.”

“Fight or flight is human nature,” Blackquill said. His voice was soft, like feathers—it was the quietest Apollo had ever heard him. “Don’t kick yourself over it. I am no different.”

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t like Apollo could stop his mind from running away from him, from catching a glimpse of Klavier from a certain angle and seeing Kristoph edging in his corners. But—their relationship was getting better, wasn’t it? They were on a first-name basis. Hell, Apollo would even say that he _liked_ the guy.

He wondered where he stood in Klavier’s eyes. He always seemed so carefree, so friendly. Even during his darkest times, with Kristoph and Daryan’s convictions, he had remained cool. Apollo couldn’t imagine that spending time with the attorney who jailed his brother and best friend could be easy for him. And yet, he never once faltered, had he?

He wanted to talk to him about it.

“It never hurts to talk,” Blackquill said. “Words are humanity’s greatest ally.”

Was that true?

But he wanted to talk with Klavier about other things, too. Klavier had mentioned so many things about himself in passing when they had gone for noodles—what else had his past been like? Where had he traveled in his youth? How was his music career doing, anyway? Apollo didn’t know. He should know. Klavier was his _friend_ —when your _friend_ had an album out on the market, you should know about it.

Apollo caught Athena look at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Yeah, I agree. I guess we’re both on the same page, aren’t we?” She unclenched her hands from her jacket. Her fingers left wrinkles in their wake. “We’re going to talk, I promise. How about… lunch?”

Lunch.

“Lunch?” Blackquill hummed. “Would a public place really be best?”

“Sometimes there’s comfort in the non-intimate.”

True.

Maybe… lunch would be good.

Before Apollo’s mind could wander any further into self-reflective purgatory, the door to the office burst open and hit the wall with a deafening thud. Trucy Wright, in all of her cloaked, magician glory, emerged from the room.

She didn’t exactly look _happy_ , though. No, if Apollo had to pinpoint the emotion on her face, he’d say… uh, _panicked_.

“Tr-Trucy?” Athena said. She slapped a hand to her chest in shock. “Is everything okay? Y-you scared the daylights outta me….”

“Yes!” she said, and forced on a smile. She really shouldn’t do that—it looked like her face was going to split in two. “I’m fine! It’s time for you to come in, now!”

Apollo, Athena, and Blackquill exchanged silent looks of confusion with one another, before they all rose creakily to their feet.

The scene inside the main Agency office was just as strange as Trucy’s behavior. Mr. Wright was shuffling through his papers, an irritated crease folded in his brow. That was the first time Apollo could remember him looking angry during their campaign. Granted, he couldn’t see his face half the time, so who really knew….

Planted in her normal spot was Ema, shoving Snackoos into her mouth by the literal handful. She didn’t bother looking up at the open door: her piercing glare was directed solely towards, who else, Klavier.

Not that Klavier could see it, with his position sprawled out on his belly like a starfish. His face was buried in the carpet, though Apollo could see him raise his head up an inch—only to bring it thudding back down, forehead first. Repeatedly.

“I take it you’re all having fun,” Apollo said.

Mr. Wright looked up at him, and—ack, what a glare! Was that aimed at him in particular, or was he just in a bad mood…?

“Sit,” Mr. Wright said. More like “commanded,” really.

Both Apollo and Athena squatted down immediately, right in their spot in the doorway. They were too far away to be considered “part of the circle,” though, so they had to scooch across the carpet on their asses in order to get closer. Good thing nobody was paying attention.

“Are we switching places?” Blackquill asked, still standing. He had maintained his composure—Apollo wished he had such a talent.

“No time,” said Mr. Wright. “Just _sit_.”

Okay, that one must’ve gotten to Blackquill, for he quickly fell to his knees.

Apollo had noticed before, but whenever Blackquill joined the circle of people (the Circle of Losers, he affectionately thought of it), he didn’t sit with his legs crossed. He sat with his legs tucked under him, on his knees—like a samurai would. He must’ve been _really_ passionate about his whole “twisted samurai” shtick.

Apollo glanced over at Klavier, still pounding his head against the floor. Some prosecutors devoted more effort into keeping up their image than others, apparently.

The six arranged themselves into their normal counting order (as best they could with Klavier refusing to budge), with Blackquill squeezing in between Athena and Ema. Blackquill glanced over at the former detective and bit his lower lip, as if he wanted to say something to her—introduce himself, probably.

Ema noticed his staring and sent a pity glance his direction. “I know who you are, so don’t bother introducing yourself. I’m in a bad mood.”

“You are Skye-dono, correct?” he tried, anyway.

“Hmph. You know, if I had known more prosecutors would show up, I wouldn’t have bothered coming.”

“Oh.”

“All of you—you’re all so… difficult! Getting in my way! Ugh, you all drive me up the _wall_!”

_Ka-tonk!_

“Oh.”

“Look at that—you’ve been Snackoo’d, Simon,” Athena said, grinning. “You’re a part of the family now!”

“Oh. Smashing.”

Apollo was sure their banter would continue to be hilarious, but he had other fish to fry.

“Klavier?” Apollo gently nudged Klavier’s shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. His head stopped thumping, though he didn’t bother looking up at him. “Is everything all right?”

Klavier mumbled something in response, but the carpet muffled his words.

“I can’t hear you. Lift your head up.”

“Nein.”

Well, at least he could hear his whining. That was comforting.

Mr. Wright rapped on his desk to get everybody’s attention, effectively cutting short all of their conversations. Apollo was reminded of the way the Judge pounded his gavel to silence the courtroom.

“All right,” he said, and Apollo didn’t need to see his face to know that he was scowling. “Let’s try this again. Hopefully our other group won’t make the same… mistake.”

_Mistake_ , good. It was a big enough mistake to render Trucy speechless, Ema irate, and Klavier practically dead. Apollo could only imagine.

“So. Let’s pan back over to Aphollo, Atheinah, and Belak’kwil, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I had an update schedule? lmao neither do i  
> My word, we've been in the same session for a while. Or maybe it just feels that way because I suck so much at updating...? Well, we're almost outta here, I promise! then we can finally progress oh god
> 
> I haven't played D&D myself for a few weeks. My group instead decided to do a Call of Cthulhu oneshot, and -- oh man, it was SCARY. I think it's the most I've roleplayed during a session, too (I hate to say it, but I'm not the best at roleplaying -- most of my characters are just... me. like these guys in the fic, see?). It was a lot of fun, though! I'd highly recommend it for a nice change of pace.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I love you all to pieces!


	17. Chapter 17

Right. Aphollo, Atheinah, and Belak’kwil continue to trundle through the mountain labyrinth. Aphollo is carrying a torch, having learned his lesson from before. The light is getting on Belak’kwil and Thoron’s nerves.

“If you find light necessary,” Belak’kwil grumbles to himself (or maybe to his bird), “you shouldn’t be underground.”

Aphollo spares him a glance. “It’s not like we _wanted_ to get stuck in a never-ending maze. We were teleported here against our will, remember.”

“You wanted to find Amarah’s Tomb, and find it you did. This is your punishment for disgracing her legacy.”

“No offense,” Atheinah says, “but you’ve been stuck here way longer than we have.”

Belak’kwil scoffs and returns to scratching the feathers beneath Thoron’s chin.

…Okay, let’s just cut to the chase.

The group of three wander for what’s probably around forty minutes, before they hear a deep noise echoing off the walls of the cavernous chambers. It sounds like thudding—footsteps.

“Uh-oh.” Aphollo looks at his torch, then down at his sheathed sword. “Umm. Should I draw my weapon, guys—?”

“ _Silence_!”

He’s cut off by Belak’kwil grabbing his torch, snuffing the flame out with his bare hand, and pulling him—and Atheinah—towards the wall of the cavern.

Aphollo yelps in surprise. “Hey! What’s the big—?”

Instead of responding verbally, Belak’kwil instead offers Aphollo a nice jab in the gut. It’s obvious as to why: strange things sounding in the dark aren’t, on average, very _friendly_. And considering how well the mimic was handled, hiding might be the best option at hand.

Aphollo swallows his complaints with a tiny huff.

The footsteps grow closer. They sound frantic and fast—they must be running.

Either fortunately or unfortunately, the thudding becomes deafening as its makers enter their cavern. Aphollo can’t see them in the darkness, and neither can Atheinah from where Belak’kwil has her tucked behind him. They can hear the newcomer’s panting, though, along with their panicky chatter.

“Do you—do you think we lost them?!”

“Who cares? We need to get to the exit, _stat_!”

“B-but what about the others? We can’t just leave them here! You saw what happened to— _to_ —!”

“I could not give less of a crap about the _others_! Right now all I care about is saving my own skin, thank you very much!”

They don’t need to roll a Perception check to know who the two voices belong to.

“Ah!” Atheinah wriggles her way out of Belak’kwil’s hold, much to his horror. She reaches for her necklace and immediately casts Light, dousing the entire cavern in a hazy mist of pale yellow. “Eyma! Truth!” A smile blazes across her face. “You’re here! Oh my gosh, I thought we’d never find you!”

“What,” Belak’kwil growls to Aphollo. It’s not exactly a question.

“They’re in our party,” he explains. “Remember how we were searching for our friends?” He, too, follows Atheinah out into the center of the cavern to greet Eyma and Truth personally.

In the new light, Aphollo can make out the women’s forms clearly. They’re both blinking rapidly, either at the sudden brightness or in shock. Eyma has a hand stamped to her cheek, and Truth a hand over her mouth. And beyond that, they look _horrible_ —Truth’s once-white robes are soiled and torn, and Eyma’s armor is muted and muddy. Fresh gashes run along their faces and skin, blood trickling from the wounds. It looks like they’ve just been mauled.

“Aphollo! Atheinah!” Truth sucks in a breath, like she’s about to cry. “You’re alive! I’m so happy you’re okay—!”

Eyma recovers from her initial surprise and instantly straightens. She’s gripping her sword, having been running with it. “No time for talk! We have to get moving!”

“Huh? Is something after you?” Atheinah asks.

“Yes! No! I don’t know! But we found an exit, and we need to get to it! Quickly! Out of my way—!”

“Calm down.” Belak’kwil manages the courage to step out of his spot in the shadows. He’s obviously on-edge, and Thoron on his shoulder is tensing—but his words are soft. “There is nothing chasing you. If there was, we would have heard it by now.”

“What the hell is _that_?!” Eyma swings her sword towards Belak’kwil at such speed, Truth squeaks from beside her.

Atheinah holds up her hands. “Whoa, Eyma, chill out! He’s our friend! He helped—”

“It’s a _Drow_! As if this day couldn’t get any worse! Does this cave lead into the Underdark? That would explain everything, wouldn’t it?”

“Is there something wrong with my heritage,” Belak’kwil snorts, “ _Elf_?”

Eyma’s nostrils flare. “How dare you even _speak_ to—ugh, whatever!” She directs her attention at Atheinah. “Listen, we found an exit—down this cavern and to the left, through the room with the pond. We’re going there. Now.”

“Now? Uh, sure, I guess? I mean, it’s not like we’re doing much of anything—”

“Hey,” Aphollo says. Every member of the party turns to look at him. “Where’s Klavi’or?”

Atheinah blinks. “Did he not come in with them?”

Eyma sends Truth a capital-“L” Look.

“E-eep! Don’t glare at me like that! You ran away, too!”

“But I wasn’t the one who caused it, was I?”

“It wasn’t my fault! We would’ve been in trouble no matter what!”

Aphollo slouches forward, as if a great weight had just fallen on his shoulders. “Oh, great. What happened?”

Eyma and Truth stare at one another, exchanging a silent drama. Eventually, Eyma breathes a stream of air between her tight teeth.

“We need to get to the exit,” she says, again.

“Eyma, seriously. What happened to—?”

“He’s dead, all right? God! Lay off me!”

A heavy silence washes over the room, drowning out both word and thought.

It doesn’t last very long, though. Aphollo breaks it quickly. By _screaming_.

“HE’S _WHAT_?”

“W-well, we don’t know for sure!” Truth says. “He might still be alive! We didn’t actually see—”

“No,” Eyma says, “he’s definitely dead.”

Aphollo holds his head in his hands and squeezes hard around his temples. Doesn’t that… hurt? His knuckles are whitening. “What did you _do_?!”

Truth squeaks and takes a skittish step back. “O-okay, okay! Let me explain! Just promise not to be angry at me, all right?”

“I will promise _no such thing_!”

“Eek! F-fair enough!” Truth presses her two index fingers together, and her eyes flit to every spot in the cavern that isn’t Aphollo’s face. “Okay, umm… so we got separated, right? We, err… we were swallowed up by that giant treasure hoard—Eyma, Klavi’or, and I.”

Aphollo’s eyebrow twitches as if to say, _Yeah, I was there, thanks._

“U-umm. So, it was just the three of us, wandering through the dark. Luckily, we actually found an exit! Like Eyma said, it’s only a little ways over there… there’s a cute pond and a staircase made out of rocks! And, at the top of the staircase, we could see sunlight! So if we were to climb up, we would be able to escape.

“We were about to make our exit, but… Klavi’or said that we shouldn’t. He wanted to keep looking for you. He said something like, uh… ‘ _Achtung_ , _Fräuleins_! It isn’t very _güt_ to leave your _schatzis_ stranded in a spooky cave by themselves, _ja_? Let’s keep searching for them! Rock on!’ Or something like that.”

A spot-on impression.

“Yeah, it was really noble of him! And I mean, I didn’t want to abandon you guys, either—”

“I did,” Eyma says.

“—But the exit was right there, and it was so tempting! But he won both of us over. So we went back to searching for you guys, making sure to make a mental path to where the exit was.” Truth settles her gaze strictly at the floor, nibbling at her lip with her fangs. “We eventually came across this really dark room. Klavi’or sent some of his lights inside, but it was too big a cavern to light the whole thing. But we heard something moving inside! _Skittering_! The word ‘skittering’ was definitely used! And only scary things _skitter_!”

“We should’ve turned back,” Eyma adds, unhelpfully.

“For the love of God, Ema,” Aphollo says, turning on her, “stop cutting her off!”

“U-urk.”

“We couldn’t turn back!” Truth says. “What if you guys were in there, in _danger_? No, we had to persevere! We had to get through the cavern, and that meant fighting whatever was skittering in the darkness! So—so I did something.”

She goes quiet and tilts her head down so that her face is obscured by her wizard’s cap. Aphollo, Atheinah, and Belak’kwil all press forward with high, curious brows.

Aphollo voices the question everybody’s thinking: “What did you do?”

When she lifts her head, her eyes are glassy, and the corners of her lips are trembling. Her voice is wet. “W-well, I thought that… we could sneak attack whatever was in the room and get a head start! So, I….” She sucks in a deep breath, and finally utters: “I cast Magic Missile!”

There’s a beat of silence.

Aphollo stares at her. “Is that supposed to tell me something?”

Belak’kwil, however, seems to understand the tragic comedy of the situation, for a snort spills through his lips. “You attacked the darkness.”

“Yes!” Truth cries. “I cast Magic Missile at the darkness! Magic Missile never misses, so I thought… I thought that if I could cast Magic Missile and ambush whatever was in the room, we could get a head start on beating them up!”

Eyma huffs and runs her fingers through her ratty hair. “Long story short, the room was a monster house and Truth aggro’d a bunch of giant-zombie-spider things. We tried fighting them off—used up everything we got, really—but it was no use. We were outnumbered, and we had to flee.”

“I used my last spell slot to cast Expeditious Retreat on myself, then booked it!”

“Yeah, and I used my action to dash. And my bonus action… to dash.”

Aphollo rubs at his eyes. “And Klavi’or?”

“He was slow,” Eyma says. “He didn’t have anything to make him move faster. So, uh, he got trapped in a web, and… well.” She averts her eyes, instead looking at a particularly interesting rock formation behind Aphollo’s head. “We kept running without looking back, so we don’t know what happened to him. But we weren’t chased, so… one can only assume.”

The heavy silence returns, this time in full blast. Aphollo can’t bear to look anyone in the face, Atheinah just looks confused, and Belak’kwil is chuckling up a storm.

“Well, at least you’re not _all_ dead,” the Drow says. “You made the right choice by getting out of there while you could.”

“ _Right choice_? You think leaving somebody to die is the _right choice_?” Aphollo’s entire stance tenses, as if preparing to draw a weapon on Belak’kwil. His lips are pulled back, revealing his teeth in a hostile sneer. That’s the most intimidating he’s been so far, I think.

Belak’kwil’s amused smirk doesn’t fade. “If you had to make the choice between one person dying and three, which would you choose, Paladin-dono?”

He meets Belak’kwil’s gaze and holds it. “I would rather die attempting to save someone than live knowing I didn’t try.”

Belak’kwil studies Aphollo’s face for a moment—his dark eyes trace circles from his hair horns, to his forehead, to his chest. He cocks his head, as does the bird on his shoulder.

“Umm, we _did_ try to help him,” Truth mutters quietly. “We’re not complete monsters, here.”

“Interesting,” Belak’kwil says, almost hums. “I never imagined that you would get so invested in your character, Justice-dono. Color me surprised.”

Aphollo rolls his eyes, and then immediately returns his attention to Truth. “Where is he?” he asks for what’s probably the billionth time.

“Ph-Pholly!” Her eyes widen. “I know it’s sad and all, but you can’t possibly be thinking of going _back_ there! Eyma and I are at, like, two hit points—and I’m entirely out of spells! We wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“Then I’ll go by myself.” Aphollo growls the words, low and thick. “Now, tell me: _where is he_?”

How noble.

Unfortunately, it’s for naught.

“Uh,” says Eyma, “I am _not_ letting _two_ of our party members die in the same day. We’re going to the exit, and we’re going _now_.” She pushes by the rest of the group, towards where she had indicated the exit was before.

Nobody makes a move to follow her.

She looks over her shoulder. “Oh, _come on_. You’re not all that torn up about one fop, are you?”

“Aphollo’s right,” Atheinah says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “We can’t just leave him there! Not if there’s a chance he might still be alive!” She pauses for a few seconds, and then stares off into the great beyond. “Mr. Wright, I don’t suppose you could tell us if there’s any hope left for him, could you?”

Well, Klavi’or is, ahem, _wrapped up_ in a _sticky_ situation right now. All I’ll say is that—maybe if you hurry, you can catch him while he’s still alive. Whether or not you can save him, though, is another question entirely.

“Yeah,” Truth says with a creased brow, “those spiders were really nasty. Maybe we could’ve beat them as a group, but… with Eyma and I in our current states and Klavi’or out of commission, I don’t think you three can take them down. You’ll end up like us.”

All of Truth’s concerns go right over Aphollo’s head. His left hand goes to his longsword, and his other to his shield.

“You’re not going to stop me from trying.” His grip tightens around the hilt of his blade, and he swings it up in front of his face. “Now, let’s try this again: tell me _where he is_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love that goddamn rogue who dashes away whenever things get tough. Bonus points if they're some breed of arcane trickster/spellcaster and know Expeditious Retreat, too. Steal the crown, only to run far away and let the rest of the party deal with their mess... what assholes.
> 
> Sorry for the short chapters, folks. You've probably noticed, but I tend to ramble a lot in my writing, so my pacing isn't all that great -- but, if you can believe it, it's far, far worse before editing. For example, this chapter was originally 4k words, haha. I don't have a lot of time to edit, so trying to edit the next chapter too -- also currently sitting at around 4k -- to squish them together (an 8k endeavor altogether) over the course of one Saturday is just... not doable. I'm trying my best, though!! I hope you'll forgive me.
> 
> Thank you for reading this increasingly silly thing! I appreciate all of your comments, kudos, and bookmarks so, so much!!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Klavier is reduced to the role of sexy lamp.

Truth and Eyma reluctantly agree to lead Aphollo, Atheinah, and Belak’kwil back to the treacherous cavern where they had left Klavi’or. They do so on a couple of conditions, though:

“Sorry, Pholly, but I can’t help you fight this battle. I have to be near the back so I can make a quick getaway if worse comes to worst! I’m all out of tricks, so I have to be really careful!”

“I’m not helping, either. I have three HP left and you didn’t bother to heal me, so you can count me out.”

So Aphollo, Atheinah, and Belak’kwil make up the front of the marching order, with the other two taking up the rear.

“Personally, I’m of the opinion that we should get to the exit now,” Belak’kwil says. Thoron is picking at his hair as he walks, as if grooming it for him. “These chambers are known to change. What could be an exit one minute could be a pit of poisonous snakes the next.”

“Or maybe you’re just a bad Ranger,” Atheinah says.

“What—?! Bollocks! The underground is my terrain of expertise!”

“I dunno, man. We’ve only been here a handful of hours and we’ve already found the exit. You’ve been in here for how many weeks? With nothing to show for it…?”

Belak’kwil grinds his teeth together. “Don’t blame my character for the contrivances of the plot.”

Eventually, they reach a spot in the cavern where Eyma and Truth both halt in their tracks and turn to look at one another. Truth bites her lip, and Eyma pushes some loose locks of hair out of her face.

“There,” Eyma says, pointing. “This corridor funnels into a bigger room. He should still be in there, I think.”

“Good luck, you guys!” Truth tips her wizard’s hat and winks. “I believe in you!”

“Don’t lie to them.”

“Well, who knows? You can do anything if you put your mind to it!” Even so, she still backs up a few steps. “But you can’t blame me for being careful!”

The skinny tunnel they’re currently walking down does appear to end in another, larger chamber, as Eyma had said. Even with the light from Atheinah’s now-alit necklace, it’s impossible to see anything beyond the immediate entryway. The darkness inside the room seems thicker than usual—unnatural. Even Belak’kwil has trouble looking in.

Aphollo sends Belak’kwil a sidelong look. “Do you see anything… uh, what was the word she used—”

“Skittering,” offers Atheinah.

“I can’t tell,” Belak’kwil admits with a sordid frown. “Hmph. We need to get closer.”

“Shouldn’t we come up with some sort of plan?” Atheinah asks. “The other group’s plan totally backfired, so we should try not to repeat their mistakes, right? Maybe we can sneak in?”

“If our objective is to rescue your friend, then that won’t be possible,” says Belak’kwil. “I’d imagine that the creatures who captured him would be preoccupied with him right about now. There wouldn’t be any point in _sneaking_ in—not when we have to steal him back from right under their noses.”

Aphollo nods along to Belak’kwil’s logic. “All right. Then we go in guns a’blazing.”

“It sounds like a foolish idea when said aloud. However, I don’t see any other—”

Before Belak’kwil can finish his thought, Aphollo swings his sword, slicing through the empty air in front of him. His eyebrows twist together, and he mumbles a string of pretty words. As he speaks, the longsword begins to change color from dirty steel-silver into a gleaming gold that glows like angel’s wings. It washes the deep cavern damp in divine light.

Belak’kwil wrenches away from it, and Thoron squawks on his shoulder. “Oh, in Lolth’s name—if you’re going to turn on a light, _warn_ me first!” He tries to glare at Aphollo, but the bright light forces him to screw his eyes shut.

Atheinah cups her hands around her cheeks. “Whoa! It’s glowing!” She thinks about this for a second or two, before realization blooms on her face. “Hey, wait a second! You could make your sword glow this whole time, and you were fumbling with the stupid torch earlier? What gives?!”

“I can only do this once,” says Aphollo, “and only for a minute. So c’mon—we’re going in.”

He jogs ahead of both Belak’kwil and Atheinah, into the foreboding cavern ahead. The light from his sword pierces through the darkness, but not well enough: the whole room still seems murky.

When he fully enters, he can make out the interior a little bit better. It’s just as Truth and Eyma had described—the rocks beneath his boots are coated in a strange, sticky substance. When he lifts his foot to take another step, he finds that the movement is much more laborious than normal. He’s not stuck (not yet), but trying to make a quick getaway is out of the question.

Of course, with web, there tends to be web-spinners. Aphollo twists around, checking each visible corner. He sees lumps of off-white web splattered along the walls like paper doilies—and, in the smack-dab center of the room, he sees something dangling from the ceiling off a long string of web.

“No spiders?” he asks himself.

He doesn’t see any spiders in _front_ of him, no.

That seems to be good enough for Aphollo. He trudges through the sticky web, towards the center. The threads tie around his calves and pull at his boots, but his sheer strength allows him to slog through unhindered. He’s focused: something as weak as web doesn’t have the power to stop a Paladin on a mission, apparently.

He reaches the thing hanging from the ceiling and gives it a once-over. It’s human-sized, clumpy, and unmoving. The web is glistening in the light from his sword: it looks wet. Fresh.

“Is it him, then?”

Why are you asking me?

“ _Aphollo_ ,” Atheinah hisses. She and Belak’kwil are hovering near the entrance of the room, too wary to take a step into the web. That’s smart of them—neither of them can rival Aphollo’s strength, and would be much easier to trap. “You should hurry…!”

“You guys aren’t even coming in?! I’m on my _own_?” Aphollo breathes a hot sigh. “Ugh, _fine_. Well, let’s see—maybe I could light the cocoon on fire to help break him out? Is it flammable?”

“Great idea,” Belak’kwil mutters. “Roast him alive.”

“Yeah,” Atheinah adds. “How’s the song go again? _Burning on in my heart. Fire._ ”

Now wouldn’t that be _hilarious_.

“O-okay, not the best idea, I got it! I’ll just… well—first of all, I’ll try… this.”

He takes his blade and holds it at a delicate angle, as if about to slice a piece of cheesecake. He hovers over what appears to be the blob’s middle, then cuts a thin, long seam, careful not to plunge in too deeply. After the cut is made, he reaches forward to pull the web apart with his gauntlets, and—

Oh, yes. That’s _definitely_ who he’s looking for.

Aphollo deflates in relief. “It’s Klavi’or?”

What’s left of him, anyway.

“Huh—?”

The glimmerous Half-Elf isn’t looking too hot, that’s for sure. He’s dangling upside-down, head close to the floor—Aphollo is lucky he didn’t stab his pretty face. Web grips his face, his hair, and his clothes—so tightly that he looks infused with it. His skin is ghastly pale, and his lips are a puckered blood-drained purple. His eyes are shut, and when Aphollo rips off a gauntlet to press a bare hand to his neck, his skin is ice-cold. However, Aphollo can tell by the soft _thud, thud_ vibrating against the pads of his fingers that he is somehow, against all odds, still alive.

“Oh, thank god,” Aphollo breathes. “Okay, I’m healing him now. Lay on Hands or whatever.”

Golden light twinkles to life on his fingertips. As he runs a hand down Klavi’or’s face, the light cascades from his soul into his. Klavi’or’s veins, visible due to his pale complexion, glow in divine radiance. As it fizzles through his bloodstream, color gradually blossoms back into his cheeks.

“Klavi’or?” Aphollo whispers, naked hand cupping his face. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

Klavi’or’s eyelids flutter, but he remains silent.

“It’s going to be all right,” Aphollo says. His voice is surprisingly gentle, considering the direness of the situation. Relief crowns his features, shading him soft. “I’m going to cut you loose, okay? But you’re probably going to end up on the ground. Uh, prepare yourself for that.”

Despite his soothing, Klavi’or is still out cold. Aphollo frowns and pokes at his cheek, as if trying to rouse a sleeping baby.

“You have positive hit points now, don’t you? Why are you still moping?”

Belak’kwil’s voice wades through the dreary darkness: “He was bitten by a giant arachnid. I’ve seen those bites up close and personal before, within the Underdark—they’re nasty. Even after treatment, the victim of the bite is paralyzed for at least one hour.”

“Paralyzed?”

“Can’t move, can’t speak. A useless lump in every regard.”

“Ah.” Aphollo’s bare fingers ghost along Klavi’or’s jaw. Perhaps the movement is subconscious—he doesn’t appear to realize that he’s doing it. If only Klavi’or were awake—now _that_ would be a sight to see. “No wonder you were so whiny. Well, Lay on Hands can cure status conditions too, I think, so I can just do that….”

Before he can mumble out another lazy prayer, though, he hears something. Something echoing throughout the chamber, filling his heart with dread.

Something that sounds, vaguely, like skittering.

“ _Aphollo_!” The cry comes from Atheinah behind him. “Above you—!”

Aphollo looks up.

Considering the fact that he knew he was dealing with _spiders_ , he probably should’ve looked _up_ to begin with.

“H-hey, I had a mission! I was distracted!”

Oh, I could tell.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean—?!”

No matter.

Dangling from the ceiling above him are the jaunted forms of four massive, black spiders. Their legs are long and bony—and their _eyes_ , oh dear. Instead of gleaming in the light, they reflect nothing. As Aphollo focuses his vision, he can tell why—they _have_ no eyes. Congealing in their eye sockets and around their sharpened fangs is pure, putrid, pitch-blackness—darkness that has taken on a physical form and a vile scent.

“Wraith spiders?” asks Belak’kwil.

Oh, I didn’t know Simyn Belak’kwil, Ranger from the Deep, was well-versed in the nuances between different breeds of undead vermin. Considering they’re not his favored prey or anything.

“Nnngh….”

Anyway. The spiders click at Aphollo curiously.

He blinks up at them. He shimmies closer to Klavi’or, and he grips his sword’s hilt snugger.

“Uh. Hi there, Mr. Spiders.”

And then one of them taps their legs against the ceiling, clicks again, and launches a string of web straight towards Aphollo. The shot lands on his neck, and then clots into a thick goo that oozes all the way onto his shoulders.

“Wh-what?! I want to rip it off! Get it away from me!”

He tries, but when his hand gropes at the web, he can’t pull it away again. This web is much stickier than the stuff on the ground—maybe it has something to do with how fresh it is.

“Crap.”

Crap, indeed.

Things don’t get much better when the string of web is suddenly _yanked_ up towards the ceiling. And with it goes Aphollo, up and _snap_ —until he’s dangling as far off the ground as Klavi’or is. Only right-side-up, and… well, by his _neck_.

“ _Eek_!” he hears Atheinah cry. “Simyn, we have to do something! Come on—!”

“Gahhhk—!”

Aphollo’s sacred sword clatters to the ground as both of his hands reach to claw at the web. It’s not _hanging_ him, fortunately—but it’s at a cumbersome enough angle to verge on strangling him.

Oh. We should probably roll for initiative.

“You _think_ —?!”

Quiet. Aphollo’s being strangled. He can’t speak.

“Oh, but when I _can_ —”

Two of the spiders, not including the one toying with Aphollo, crawl down the walls. The closer they get, the larger they’re revealed to be—they’re about the size of cattle. They ignore Aphollo entirely, instead drawing closer to their simmering prey: Klavi’or. They must be wary of him escaping, for one of their abdomens oozes web, and its gangly legs work on patching the hole Aphollo had made with his sword. The other spider, for good measure, strikes at what’s most likely Klavi’or’s torso (it’s hard to tell) with its fangs, injecting him with more poison. And just after he was healed, too.

“All right—time to show you blithering idiots true power,” Belak’kwil says with a smirk in his voice. “Does this web count as difficult terrain?”

Yes. But he’s still going to need to make a Dexterity or Strength check to see whether or not he’s restrained by it, if he enters the chamber.

“Tsk, tsk, Wright-dono: I am a Natural Explorer, meaning I ignore the effects of difficult terrain. So I should be able to pass through the web with ease.”

Who says?

“The rules?”

Okay, firstly: please don’t tell me that Belak’kwil is the “improved” Ranger archetype? From _Unearthed Arcana_?

“Why would I ever use anything else?”

Argh, should’ve seen that one coming. Okay, fine, too late now. Secondly: I’m pretty sure the web counts as more than just difficult terrain. Besides, I’m the Dungeon Master here, so when I say that you have to make a check, you have to make a check. Quote the rules at me all you want—it’s my game, and what I say goes. Got it?

“Nnngh—!”

“Power feel nice for once, Mr. Wright?”

What part _of Aphollo is being strangled_ doesn’t he understand?

“Oh, excuse me. I meant: ouch, ack, help me. That better?”

“Ahem.” Before any more petty insults can be thrown, Belak’kwil draws his shortsword from its sheath and slogs into the room. As soon as he enters the web, though, he finds himself sinking deeper into it—the substance constricts around his ankles. He tries to pull himself free, but… alas, he doesn’t have the power. He is, for all intents and purposes, stuck.

“I’m calling your bluff,” he mutters under his breath.

The other spider on the ceiling—the one not dangling Aphollo—scuttles down the rocky walls to join its friends near Klavi’or. It faces the duo of Atheinah and Belak’kwil, but doesn’t move to strike at them—instead, it appears to be guarding its already-captured prey.

“All right,” Belak’kwil says, “they can have him.”

“ _Simyn_!” Atheinah balls her hands into fists, as if getting ready to punch him. “You can’t say stuff like that! What kind of hero are you?”

“Who said anything about being a hero? All I want to do is get out of this festering underground _hellhole_.”

“Ugh…! I can’t tell if you’re roleplaying, or if you’re just being insufferable!”

Why not both?

Anyway, it’s Aphollo’s turn.

The web is riding up around his neck, cutting off the air to his lungs. He gags and tries to claw the goo off of him… but it’s so _sticky_ , all he ends up doing is making his arms numb.

With one desperate tug, he manages to pry enough away to breathe, but not enough to escape its clutches. He’s still suspended in the air. If he wants to actually escape, he’s going to have to expend his action.

He observes the scene below him. Two spiders are actively on Klavi’or, one wrapping him up in an industrial-strength cocoon, and the other rearing to bite again. Klavi’or might as well be dead: the wraith-spider silk definitely doesn’t feel permeable enough to breathe through, and Aphollo can only imagine the burning toxin coursing through Klavi’or’s blood.

Upon closer observation (amazing how well Aphollo can observe the tiniest details even while being half-strangled), Aphollo notices some burn marks on the tips of the spiders’ hair: remnants of a Fire Bolt, he assumes. Divots of dagger wounds also pepper their abdomens, leaking black blood all over the white web. Despite this, none of them seem particularly bothered—if they are, they’re good at hiding it.

“They’ve already taken a lot of damage and aren’t fazed,” Aphollo mutters. “You’re saying it’s pointless to try to fight.”

That’s just what Aphollo sees.

“Why would you _do_ this?” His voice cracks as he speaks. It does that frequently, granted, but this time it sounds more… venomous. “Why did you make the three of them encounter something they couldn’t possibly defeat? Why didn’t you make it easier for them?”

Like I said at the beginning of this adventure: the fate of our heroes is up for the dice to decide, not me.

“There’s a difference between being fair and being _cruel_. It’s not a very fun game if it’s not _fair_.” The hair on his arms stands up on end. “I’d almost think you’re doing this on purpose. That you actually wanted him to….” He pauses for a second, and then, slowly, his eyes widen. They widen, and widen, until they’re the size of twin moons.

Did he figure something out?

“ _No_ ,” he breathes, as if that word carried any meaning. “You wouldn’t do that, right? Mr. Wright? You’re not— _no_. No _way_. That’s _low_ , why would you even…?”

Hmm?

“Oh my god. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re… oh. Oh my _god_. You’re _unbelievable_.”

He’s acting like he’s stumbled upon some great discovery, but I haven’t a clue what that “discovery” might be.

“Apollo?” Atheinah asks—more like calls, really, due to their distance away. “Umm. Are you okay? You’re getting all sweaty again.”

“He does look damp,” Belak’kwil comments.

Aphollo closes his eyes and thinks for a long, silent moment. Gears are visibly clinking together over his head as he mulls over all of his choices, option by _agonizing_ option.

Finally, he opens his eyes and his mouth and proclaims: “You will not touch him again.”

He’s continuing to make very little sense.

Aphollo rubs at his giant, golden bracelet hanging off of his left hand. His gaze pierces through the darkness, hard and determined, as he focuses all of his attention on the motionless lump that is Klavi’or’s paralyzed body.

“Sanctuary,” he whispers.

…Huh.

The second the spell drips from his lips, the lights—both from Aphollo’s still-glowing sword and Atheinah’s necklace—waver in uncertainty. They flicker, knobbing brighter and brighter, until their power is too much, too _bright_ , and their essence is forced to autotomize.

“You _fool_ ,” Belak’kwil whines as he covers his eyes, “I told you to _warn me_!”

Droplets of light roll and tumble from the sword and necklace and across the rocky floor, like a river rushing towards its delta. As it passes under the legs of the spiders, they cry out and retreat from it.

The light clusters at the center of the room, on Klavi’or himself. It plods up into the cocoon and settles there, so that the web itself glows so _radiantly_ , mere mortals can’t bear to look at it.

The spiders go ballistic. Their pained screeches are ear-splitting, and their legs twitch and spasm as they cower from the light—and, in turn, from Klavi’or himself.

“Oh man,” Atheinah marvels. “What the heck did you do?”

“That was my bonus action,” Aphollo says, “right?”

Umm. Sanctuary does count as a bonus action, yes; and you didn’t have to roll to rearrange the web, so… I suppose so. But it isn’t possible to cast more than one spell per turn.

“That wasn’t my intent.” A smirk climbs high onto Aphollo’s face, drawing up his complexion in extremely annoying pretentiousness. “You said they were _undead_ spiders?”

Oh no.

“Oh yes.” Aphollo’s hand once again goes to his bracelet. He mumbles a charm dabbed in dusty divinity, in the ancient idea of righteousness, of the ultimate _good_ : “Turn the Unholy.”

The golden glow of Klavi’or’s cocoon suddenly blazes, searing the entire room in white heavenfire light.

“Oh, for _Lolth’s sake_ —”

A shield of divine energy forms around the cocoon, like a bubble. It holds itself there for a moment, before pulsing out across the spacious cavern in a whip of force and wind. Another pulse, and then another—it beats in time to the tune of Aphollo’s (or Klavi’or’s?) heart, cloaking the air itself in true divinity, in true _good_ , in true…? Hmm, who can really say.

The spiders shriek. The one above Aphollo withdraws its web back into its abdomen and severs the thread, dropping Aphollo to the ground with a hard _thud_ (and a “ouch”). One of the spiders near Klavi’or’s cocoon folds it on itself, writing in agony. Both of them clack their fangs together pathetically in one final act of saving face, before they scuttle off as quickly as possible out the exit on the far side of the cavern. 

And thus ends Aphollo’s turn.

Atheinah has both hands splayed over her cheeks.

“Well jeez,” she musters, her shoulders sagging. “There’s nothing I can do to follow _that_ performance.”

Aphollo lifts his head from the floor and spits out a mouthful of spider string. “They might come back,” he warns. “That ability isn’t guaranteed to make them flee forever.”

Atheinah groans. “So what do you want to do? Do you think we can take these two fast enough—?”

“I think,” says Aphollo, “that we should take Klavi’or, use him as a ward, and get the hell out of here.”

“H-how long does Sanctuary last?”

“A minute. But I can cast it again.”

She nods. “So we’re running. I’m okay with that.” She coughs into a balled fist. “I’ll prepare an action—Hellish Rebuke! But, other than that… I guess it’s time to skedaddle, eh?”

“W-wait,” Aphollo says. “You could stay here until we’re ready, at the very least!”

But by the time his voice reaches her, Atheinah has already dashed away from the entryway and into the darkness beyond.

Belak’kwil cranes his head over his shoulder to watch her scamper off. “Hmph. She was getting on me earlier for saying that this was a foolish idea, yet she didn’t end up helping.” He rolls his eyes into the back of his skull. “Looks like it’s me and you, Paladin-dono. Unless you count your paralyzed pal.”

“Fabulous.”

“Of course,” Belak’kwil continues, “I’m not by myself, either.” He whistles a high pitched note in between his fingers. Thoron, having been patiently perched on her master’s shoulder (even through his struggling), snaps to attention.

Belak’kwil gestures his head in the direction of Klavi’or’s dangling cocoon. Thoron squawks in recognition, beats her wings, and then takes flight.

“Your bird’s just going to get stuck in the web. I’ll risk life and limb for a party member, but I’m not sacrificing myself for a _bird_.”

“You underestimate Thoron,” Belak’kwil says. “She is sly. Sly enough not to get entangled by measly strings, anyway—unlike other creatures.”

“Hey! You’re stuck too, buddy!”

As Thoron flies past the cocoon, she spreads her sword-sharp talons and swipes at the flimsy thread connecting it to the ceiling. The bird hits her mark, and her talons manage to sever the string in two. The cocoon falls to the ground and lands—

“Oof! Klavier, get _off_ of me!”

—Right onto Aphollo. All one-hundred-and-some-odd pounds of Bard, combined with an additional one-hundred-and-some-odd pounds of spider thread.

Thoron circles back around and again takes up roost on Belak’kwil’s shoulder. He scratches her under the chin as a reward.

One of the two remaining spiders—one of the ones that was harassing Klavi’or before—seems… well, _pissed off_. No wonder: it’s probably been blinded by all of that divine energy. It approaches Klavi’or’s cocoon hesitantly, but the sight of its aura makes the spider hiss and clack its fangs in disdain. So, instead of attacking Klavi’or (or the suffocating Aphollo beneath him), the spider moves onto the next available target: Belak’kwil.

It scurries towards him on wiggling legs and nips at him, but its blackened fangs are unable to pierce Belak’kwil’s armor. It slips off of him and growls, annoyed.

“Hah! So much for being threatening!” Belak’kwil taunts. “Maybe the other three were just weak, hmm? We should stand and fight!”

“That’s a terrible idea.” Aphollo is a little muffled, but his scratchy voice has the power to pierce through even the thickest of Bards.

Belak’kwil attempts to pull himself out of the clutches of the web, this time successfully. He slashes his sword right across the lifeless eyes of the spider in front of him, causing it to shriek, before he hastily beats a getaway. The spider lashes for his legs as he runs, but its bite whiffs.

So now the only people left in the room for the spiders to attack are Aphollo and his damsel-in-distress. So much for our party of heroes.

“I said I would do it myself if I had to,” Aphollo says. “Don’t worry—we’re going to be just fine.”

He doesn’t look like he’s saying that to Klavi’or.

The other still-present spider wants to take a bite out of the Bard, but the glowing Sanctuary surrounding him acts as its bane. It can’t reach Aphollo, either, so it’s left to spit angrily at them from a couple of yards away. Chilled acid dribbles down its sharp teeth as it salivates at the sight of them: humans taste remarkably average, but there’s something about the flavor of Half-Elf that’s palatably pleasing. They’re just so _exotic_.

“Thanks for that tidbit of world-building.” Aphollo’s hands grapple for a firm hold on the webbing beneath him, using it to push himself (and Klavi’or) up off the ground. He may be small, but he’s a lot stronger than he looks, and he’s able to sit up straight. The web clinging to his chest spreads thinner and thinner, until it peels away from him entirely. He wiggles a little, and the cocoon stuck to his back flops onto the ground with a _flumph_.

He gropes for his dimming sword, only a few feet away. He now knows how deeply Klavi’or is wedged into the cocoon, and his sword shreds through the spider web with easy speed. He tears back the strings, once again revealing Klavi’or’s pale face and blue lips. He is, miraculously, still breathing.

“Okay,” Aphollo says to the unconscious Klavi’or. He sheathes his sword, and the room gets a whole lot darker—luckily, he can make out some faint, glowing lights from the hallway. “I’m going to get you out of here. I swear, I won’t let anything happen to you. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve this at all.”

He staggers to his feet and then reaches for Klavi’or’s waist, trying to find a good grip on him. If he wants to pull him free, he’s going to need make a Strength check; Half-Elves aren’t exactly light as a feather.

“I think,” Aphollo says with a crooked smirk, “I’ll be fine.”

We’ll see about that. After all, the webs are— _ack_!

“Kind of hard to argue with a natural twenty, huh, Mr. Wright?”

Nngh….

Well, it’s doubtful that Aphollo’s muscles alone tug Klavi’or out of the cocoon, considering they aren’t that prominent a facet of him to begin with. No—it’s a combination of his determination, his adrenaline, and the adage “ _Hell hath no fury like a Paladin scorned_.”

He adjusts Klavi’or in his arms so he has a better hold on him: he tucks one arm behind his knees and nestles the other one behind his back. He holds him like he’s precious, so close to his body that Klavi’or’s face presses into his neck.

“If you want him,” he whispers against Klavi’or’s matted hair, “come and claim him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate ending for this chapter had Apollo brandishing Sting and carrying the Phial of Galadriel, shouting "LET HIM GO, YOU FILTH >:("
> 
> we've been in this goddamn cave for a century and a half, haven't we? Don't worry, though -- next week, we'll finally bust on out! And we can resume our normal awkwardly-courting lawyer activities. (But what's more romantic than D&D, really?)
> 
> I know I don't update as regularly as I used to, but thank you so much for being patient with me! The fact that you're all still reading, 70k+ words in... oh my goodness, it means the world to me. Thank you so much!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still technically Sunday B)  
> HEY, DO YOU WANT TO SEE SOMETHING SUPER FRIGGIN' COOL?? nessiemccormick on tumblr [drew some super cool art](http://nessiemccormick.tumblr.com/post/159483155954/if-you-want-him-he-whispers-against-klaviors) of the scene from the last chapter! You should totally check it out! oh my gosh it's so cool i'm crying my dudes

Too bad wraith spiders don’t have a high enough Intelligence to understand Common, much less a _Lord of the Rings_ reference.

“Okay, time to run…!”

And run Aphollo does, lugging Klavi’or in his arms. His knees wobble at the weight, but somehow, the tiny Paladin endures. He sprints as fast as he can out of the cavern (which isn’t very fast at all, but it’s the thought that counts).

The two spiders strike at him as he waddles by, one with its fangs and another with its pointed leg. The leg misses—the bite, however, pierces Aphollo through the armor on his shoulder. And oh, now he knows why the other three were so quick to flee: the bite _burns_. The fangs plunge deep into his shoulder, into his _bone_ , and he can feel the dark venom swelter through his bloodstream.

He can _feel_ it, but the poison doesn’t take effect. Instead, Aphollo kicks the spider off of him and presses onwards. Lucky for him, Paladins aren’t effected by poison.

He makes it into the hallway. It’s brighter than the webbed room, thanks to the glowing orb around Atheinah’s neck.

Eyma notices him first, though she doesn’t seem too happy about it. “What are you doing—?! You’re going to lead right to us! This was not the _plan_!”

Instead of focusing on Aphollo, Truth’s gaze winds down to Klavi’or in his arms. She snorts, then covers her growing smirk with the back of her hand. “G-good thing you got out of there okay, Ph-Pholly….”

“ _Listen_ ,” Aphollo says, tightening his hold on the back of Klavi’or’s knees, “this was the only way I could carry him! He’s unconscious!”

“What about dragging him by the chest?” says Atheinah.

“Or slinging him over your back?” says Belak’kwil.

“Or wrapping him around your shoulders?” says Eyma.

“Or carrying him piggyback style?” says Truth.

“I didn’t ask for your _opinions_!”

“Whatever, Prince Charming.” Eyma cranes her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the mouth of the cavern behind Aphollo. “Are the spiders following you?”

The frantic screeching from the darkness implies a _yes_.

“But what’s happening now?” Atheinah asks. “Should we fight them, or should we—?”

“Run,” Eyma says.

“Sh-shouldn’t we stand our ground, though? Do you think we can outrun them—?”

“If you’re going to stand your ground, you’re on your own. See ya later.” And then Eyma spins on her heel and takes off at a _dead_ sprint down the rocky corridor.

“Hey! Wait for me!” Atheinah is quick on her tail.

Our heroes, ladies and gentlemen.

Truth watches the two skedaddle, and her hand drops from her face. She looks oddly meditative, considering the direness of the unfolding events. “Hmm. Hey—are we still in combat?”

Good question. It doesn’t seem like anybody’s in the fighting mood today, huh? Let’s hear what you have in mind, and maybe we can work something out.

“Daddy, you should know better!” Truth tips her wizard’s cap and winks. The only ones around to receive it are Belak’kwil, looking embarrassed at having caught it, and Aphollo, still too annoyed to acknowledge it. “A magician never reveals her secrets! But let’s just say that it’s a pretty awesome idea!”

“Is it as genius as your Magic Missile idea?” Aphollo asks.  

“Hey, you weren’t even there! You have no right to criticize me!” Truth shakes her head. “But no, it’s better! I promise! All we need to do is get to that bend in the corridor—I think I have something that might just do the trick!”

Aphollo looks up at Belak’kwil, then down at Klavi’or’s soft face in his arms. Neither appear to sympathize with him.

“So it’s not the spiders’ turn anymore?” Aphollo asks nobody. “I can run?”

Yes, I suppose he can.

Even so, the two remaining spiders emerge from their cave, clicking their fangs together. In the better lighting, they look even uglier—their limbs are gangly and bloody, their eyes soulless and hollow. They shriek loud enough to rattle the loose rocks along the ceiling and floor.

Aphollo’s lips pull back. “Y-yeesh! I’m running, I’m running!”

Truth and Belak’kwil scamper after Eyma and Atheinah, Aphollo carrying the rear. It’s difficult to run while a) in chainmail armor, b) covered in sticky web, and c) carrying the unconscious body of a heavy Half-Elf, but Aphollo’s sheer determination is enough to keep him pressing on.

One of the spiders shoots a glob of web near his legs, attempting to trip him up. It latches onto his heel, and he stumbles—almost dropping Klavi’or in the process—but he somehow stays on his feet. Drat.

He sees Eyma and Atheinah round an upcoming corner, to the left. That must lead to the exit—he can recall Eyma and Truth going on about that before. Truth also takes the corner, but she stops in the entryway.

“Part of the plan!” she says when she sees Aphollo’s worried expression. “Hurry up! Time waits for no one!”

Belak’kwil doesn’t hesitate and rushes past her. Aphollo, however, pauses.

“What’re you doing—?” he’s about to ask, but Truth cuts him off.

“They’re gaining on us!” Truth’s hand slips into the folds of her robes and plucks out her golden, slender wand. A devious smile sullies her lips. “All right, folks—this will be my last trick for the night!”

“Wait, I thought you said you used all of your spell slots?”

“Heehee, you gotta keep the party on its toes! You don’t want to reveal your entire hand, do you?” She taps the air with her wand and, with a grin bright enough to light up any darkness, shouts, “Come on out, girls!”

From the very most tip of her wand, a powder-blue mist shimmers out into the air, blanketing the hallway. When the mist dissipates a few seconds later, in its place are three figures, each with huge smiles on their familiar faces.

Aphollo backs up a step. “Wh-what the heck?!”

“It’s time for Truth and the Truths to show these spiders a little what-for!” Indeed, the new figures are each a perfect replica of Truth, from stained white robes up to her curling horns. When Truth Prime winks, all of them wink—like images in a mirror.

The pursuing spiders are almost upon them, now. They skitter across the corridor floor, gnashing their mouths, and lock their empty eyes onto Aphollo and Truth—

“Hey, bug-brains!” Each one of Truth’s clones, plus the original, speak in unison. They leap back at different angles and strike the same taunting pose: a crooked, beckoned finger with an outstretched wand. “Over here!”

The spiders’ attentions flick from Truth to Truth. It doesn’t take them long to choose one—but, unfortunately for them, it’s the wrong one. As they leap at it, each one of the illusions scatters and runs. The spiders are too stupid to realize the one they’re striking at is fake, and they chase it as it scampers, and disappears, into the darkness of the corridors beyond.

“Sweet, it worked!” Truth claps her hands together. “You must be rolling pretty badly today, huh, Daddy?”

Tell me about it. I think these dice are cursed.

Aphollo looks like he wants to check to see if the spiders are out for the count, but Truth prods at his back, steering him away from the entryway.

“Okay, now I really _am_ out of tricks,” she says, “so we should hurry up and get out of here! No straggling!”

Once Aphollo’s eyes sweep over the new room, he can see what Truth had meant by _pond_.

“Pond?” Aphollo marvels, puffing his drooping, sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes. “That’s not a pond! That’s a goddamn _lake_!”

The cavern is big—big than any other of the caverns he had been in previously. It’s spacious, with a high ceiling. Green moss blankets the walls and rocks beneath Aphollo’s boots, trailing into the mouth of a large, still body of water. The surface is green and opaque, lifeless yet reeking. Beyond the “pond” is a curving, pseudo-stairway carved into the stone that leads up to the ceiling. Aphollo can’t make out the top of the ledge to which the stairway leads—however, he _can_ see what looks to be the deep-orange light of the setting sun streaming across the lake, painting ugly shapes on the surface of the water.

Eyma and Atheinah are perched at the pond’s edge, staring into it. The clouds of gunk billowing below the surface make it impossible to determine how deep the water really is, or what may be lurking in its depths.

“There’s no other way to reach the exit,” Eyma says, nodding her head in the direction of the source of sunlight. “So we don’t have a choice other than to go through the pond.”

Atheinah bites her bottom lip. “Didn’t you hear Mr. Wright? I don’t think that choice of words—uh, ‘what may be lurking in its depths’—was just for setting the atmosphere. I don’t want to anger anything scary!”

“Those spiders are still chasing us, aren’t they? Would you rather fight them, or get out of here?”

“B-but there’s only two! Don’t you think we can take them—?”

Atheinah sounds like she’s expecting an answer to that question, but she never gets one. For, instead of answering her, Eyma adjusts her leather armor, takes a deep breath, and dives headfirst into the water.

“D- _dives_?!”

Luckily, Eyma appears to have correctly perceived the depth. It’s deep enough for her to swim across; her feet don’t even scrape the bottom.

Atheinah’s face falls. “You didn’t know that before you _dove in_! What if it was only, like, two feet deep? There’s a reason they don’t let you dive at public pools, you know! You could’ve killed yourself!”

Eyma swims, freestyle, across the green lake. Her splashing sends ripples through the water, and bubbles ooze to the surface, releasing a foul-smelling musk when they pop.

Truth guides Aphollo farther into the room, hand still patting his back.

“The spiders should be preoccupied with the Mirror Images for a while, but they’re going to outsmart them eventually,” she says.

Just as the words leave her, there’s a screech near the entryway—followed by another screech and a slapstick-sounding _crash_ of comically-sized spider running into comically-sized spider.

Atheinah looks back over her shoulder, at Truth, Aphollo, and Belak’kwil. She gulps. “A-are we seriously… _swimming_ across?”

“The Elf seems to be having a grand ol’ time,” Belak’kwil remarks.

Eyma is about a third of the way through the lake. Swimming is a lot harder than walking, and Eyma’s lack of muscles doesn’t appear to be doing her any favors in terms of speed.

“We can assume there’s no monster in the lake, then,” Belak’kwil says with a nod. Thoron on his shoulder mimics the motion. “So yes, we swim.”

“Hold it!”

Belak’kwil rolls both his eyes and his entire head to give Aphollo the most annoyed expression ever mustered by man—or, erm, by Drow.

“Three things,” Aphollo says. “Firstly, I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but I have _this_.” He shakes Klavi’or’s body to accentuate his point. Klavi’or’s head rolls so that his face is buried into Aphollo’s neck—and although he’s still passed out, he looks _awfully_ comfortable.

“I’m sorry you’re going to have to shift from your knightly pose in order to carry him across,” Belak’kwil says with a mock pout. “I know your image is very important to you.”

“Secondly,” Aphollo continues, “I’m wearing heavy armor. I’ll sink like a rock!”

“Take it off.”

“I can’t _take it off_! Are you crazy?! How am I supposed to defend myself without my armor?”

“I don’t have any armor, and I’m doing okay!” Truth says, bouncing on her toes. “Hmm. Although there was that one time I was bitten by that cute vampire girl and almost died… and, oh! I’m at two hit points right now! So that’s not good, either!”

“ _See_?” Aphollo says, exasperation evident in his expression. “Not that it would matter, anyway, because… thirdly. I, uh, can’t swim.”

Truth and Belak’kwil both stare at him. Even Atheinah, still hovering near the edge of the water, cocks an eyebrow.

“You can’t swim?” Belak’kwil’s hands are shaking. Maybe he’s resisting the urge to strike something. “Did you… write that into your backstory? Is that an endearing character trait? That you _can’t swim_?”

Aphollo winces away. He ducks his head a little, as if trying to use Klavi’or as a shield. “Not _endearing_! It’s the truth!”

“ _Balderdash_! Why on earth would you make that part of your character? Justice-dono, you’re playing a heroic Paladin who just risked his life to save his damsel in distress, and he _can’t swim_?”

“W-we all have our flaws, okay?”

“Oh, did you write that in your ‘flaws’ section? The fact? _That_? _He_? _Can’t_? _Swim_?”

“S-Simon,” Atheinah says, a hand on her hip, “relax. It’s just a game.”

“Game? _Game_? Did you not _see_ how Justice-dono reacted to the mere _thought_ of Gavin-dono’s fictional demise? You criticize me, and yet—!”

“Guys,” Truth interrupts with a worried glance over her shoulder, “uh. Kinda on a timer, here.”

Belak’kwil folds his hands together and presses his forehead against them, then breathes out one long, croaky breath that shakes his entire frame. “He can’t swim. Who can’t swim? Who _honestly_ can’t swim? It’s not _difficult_!”

“Yeah?” Aphollo puffs out his chest. “Who can’t clean their face, huh? You still have those stupid marks under your eyes! Why? Would a clean face conflict with your aesthetic?”

“ _Aesthetic_? I was on _death row_ , you demon-haired—!”

“ _Guys_ ,” Truth says again, louder this time.

There’s another collection of crashes and shrieks from outside. Dang, these spiders are _not_ very well coordinated.

Among the clattering and pained screeches, though, the listening party members can make out something _else_ , pittering and pattering down the hallway.

“The other spiders,” Aphollo says, sucking in a small gasp. “My spell must’ve worn off…!”

Belak’kwil shoos Truth away with a flurry of his hand. “Fine. Fine! I don’t know why I should bother to help you people, but I _will_.” He huffs out another angry sigh. “Wright-dono. How wide is the lake?”

Hmm. Around forty feet, I would say. Eyma is around two-thirds of the way across, by the way.

“Forty feet. I see.” Belak’kwil looks to Aphollo. “What is your Strength score?”

Aphollo blinks. “You mean the modifier? Uh, three.”

“I said the score, boy, and that means the _score_. But three—that means the score would be sixteen or seventeen. Correct?”

The way he snaps his tongue makes Aphollo straighten to attention. “U-uh, yeah. Sixteen.”

“What is sixteen times three?”

“Huh? Are you asking me?”

“Obviously!”

“I-I don’t know! I can’t do math that fast—!”

“Forty-eight!” Truth chirps.

“Hmph.” Belak’kwil leans close, into Aphollo’s space. He takes a step back in response, drawing Klavi’or closer into himself protectively, to which Belak’kwil rolls his eyes. “Bloody hell—you’re mighty whipped, aren’t you?” He holds out his arms. “Hand him here.”

Aphollo stares at him with big, blazing eyes.

Belak’kwil frowns. “What?”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“With him? Nothing. I’m going to carry him while I swim across.” Belak’kwil advances on Aphollo again. “But I _am_ going to do something to you.”

“T-to me? What are you—?”

Belak’kwil’s bare, lavender hand grips Aphollo’s darker one. At the touch, Aphollo feels a sudden _surge_ through the blood under his skin. It’s a primal kind of energy, fierce and raw—like a wild animal, gnawing at his heart inside of him. It makes his teeth clench in imitation, and his eyes squeeze shut.

His arms go limp, and his hold on Klavi’or starts to falter. Belak’kwil catches his body before Aphollo can drop him.

Aphollo can hear the beating of his own heart loud in his ears. “What is—this?” he asks through pants.

“A spell,” Belak’kwil answers. He takes Klavi’or fully into his arms, then swings him over his shoulders. Thoron squawks in annoyance and flaps off and away, up towards the sunny exit. “I will swim across. You, however, will jump across.”

“ _Jump_?” Aphollo repeats. “Are you crazy? I can’t jump forty feet!”

“You can jump with a Jump.”

“I can jump… with a jump? Thanks, Sherlock, but no _shi_ —”

Belak’kwil glances over at Truth. “Come, little Tiefling. We need to go.”

Truth nods her head. “Right! Swimming time!” She looks behind her once, at the hallway beyond, before facing forward and skipping off towards the water. She brushes by Atheinah, then dives in.

“Huh? We’re going?” Atheinah pumps a fist into an open palm and says, “Okay, here I go!” before wading her way into the lake.

“Best get a move on,” Belak’kwil says to Aphollo, “lest you want to end up as spider food.”

Aphollo scrubs at his cheeks with the blunt edges of his nails, as if hunting for an answer to their predicament beneath his skin. “I can’t jump! Look, I don’t know what spell you cast, but I guarantee that I can’t make that jump!”

“Pity. Then I guess this is farewell.” Belak’kwil smirks at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your boyfriend in your absence.”

Aphollo’s face manages to green, pale, blush, and darken all at the same time. “H-he’s not—!”

But before he has a chance to voice his rebuttal, Belak’kwil spins around, pads silently across the ground, and leaps into the lake behind the three women. His head pops up for air a second later, then he flips his body in the water so that his arms latch around Klavi’or’s shoulders. His kicks carry them, slowly, towards the other side of the lake.

Eyma is already at the far side. She crawls onto the land and furiously swipes at the foul-smelling moss clinging to her clothes and skin. Aphollo can see her uttering a string of curses under her lips, but he’s too far away to catch their meaning.

He is alone on the water’s edge.

“This is _crazy_!” he says to himself. He holds his head in his hands and kneads at is temples. “Kneads” may be too gentle a word—the motion is a lot harsher, like pulling milk from an udder. “Swimming? _Jumping_? Mr. Wright, you know that my character wouldn’t be able to swim! You—you have a _vendetta_ , don’t you?”

Not against Aphollo, no.

“So you admit it! I was right! You _were_ trying to kill—!”

Aphollo stops mid-sentence as he hears growling from behind him.

He turns around.

All four spiders, bloody and angry, are crowded in the entryway. They look hungry, too.

“Ack—!”

Aphollo needs to make his decision, and snappily. He hasn’t got all day.

“No, no! Let me—let me think for a second! I can figure something out!”

The spiders enter the cavern, each with their eight soulless eyes trained on Aphollo.

The time for thinking is over. Now it’s time for action.

Aphollo draws back from the approaching arachnids, fear sharp on the angles of his jaw. His mouth is open, and his eyelid twitches involuntarily.

“Okay,” he finally decides, “I’m jumping!”

Good choice.

“Oh, like I _had_ one!”

Aphollo takes off at a sprint for the lake. Truth and Atheinah are a decent way across, while Belak’kwil is dawdling—he looks like he’s having trouble keeping Klavi’or afloat. Aphollo pays them no heed; instead, he sucks in a huge lungful of air, closes his eyes, and soon as he feels the curve of the ground give out to water beneath him: jumps.

And he jumps. Though _fly_ may be the better verb.

Aphollo leaps across the lake with such great, animalistic _strength_ , forty feet may as well be four. He soars through the air like a grasshopper whistling in the night, and then lands with a clunky metal _thunk_ on the opposite side of the lake. Right near Eyma, actually.

She stops her cleaning mid-motion. “All of that whining for nothing, eh?”

Aphollo doesn’t answer her—only curls into a fetal position on the ground and blubbers hopelessly.

Truth and Atheinah both pull themselves up out of the water and get to their feet. Their robes are soiled in moss and strangely-hued seaweed, but neither of them seem upset.

“We made it!” says Truth with a snaggle-toothed beam. “Even Pholly! Phew—we don’t have to worry about those spiders now! Spiders can’t swim!”

Atheinah squeezes her matted locks of orange hair, wringing out the water. “But, uh, can’t they—you know—climb on the walls?”

Truth’s face falls.

The four chummy spiders don’t even bother with fooling around at the water’s edge—they go straight to the walls. Their legs easily stick to them, and they scurry after the heroes.

Truth, Atheinah, and Eyma get the heck out of dodge. They scramble up the faux-staircase as fast as possible, pretty much on their hands and knees.

As soon as Aphollo manages to sit up, he sees Belak’kwil nearing the edge, Klavi’or in tow. He chucks Klavi’or up onto the shore with all of the grace of handling a Bard-sized sack of flour, then slinks up onto the land. He spits out a mouthful of water.

“I told you,” he says in-between coughs, “that you could jump with Jump. The _spell_.”

He pushes himself up to his feet and then staggers after the other three. Thoron, having been flapping in-place, returns to her roost on his shoulder.

“Wait,” Aphollo says, “you’re leaving Klavi’or there?!”

Aphollo toddles over to him and heaves him back up into his arms—in the same bridal-style stance as before, too. His arms are a little shaky, and he can feel the muscles in his thighs and calves twitch and tremble as the weight returns, but his determination conquers all. (So too do his rolls. I’m starting to wonder if those dice are weighted.)

“Hey! They’re _your_ dice, Mr. Wright!”

He, too, fumbles up the rocky staircase. When he clears the landing, he sees that, embedded into the wall of mossy stone, there is a massive, carved doorway—on the top of which is a small window. The western sun is setting quickly, and the light tarnishes with encroaching dusk.

The girls crowd around it. Atheinah jimmies the stone knob and pushes against the door, but, much to her dismay, it doesn’t budge. Neither does the knob—instead, it only clicks, as if—

“Locked?” Atheinah says. She presses her forehead against the stone and groans. “Are you kidding me?”

“Well, it _is_ a dungeon.” Truth tries the handle for herself, but it remains stuck. “If we had explored more of the nooks and crannies, maybe we would’ve found a key!”

But nobody found a key. Instead, everybody ran away screaming from everything they encountered.

“Well, maybe if the dungeon wasn’t full of hideously over-leveled monsters, we wouldn’t have to,” Belak’kwil mutters to his bird.

Those hideously over-leveled monsters are still on their way, by the way. Better work something out.

Aphollo hustles over to the others. “Can we break the door down?” he asks, inspecting it. “Looks sturdy, but maybe if we combine all of our strength, we can do it!”

“You’re the strongest one out of all of us, Pholly, and you’re kind of encumbered,” Truth points out with a poke at Klavi’or’s peaceful face. “He’s—whoa, he’s so _cold_! Is he really okay? He’s still paralyzed?”

“I think he’s supposed to be paralyzed for an hour,” says Aphollo. “Though who knows how much time has passed in-game. Could’ve been two minutes, for all I know.”

“Hey.” Eyma shoves Atheinah out of the way (“Oi, watch it!”) and settles herself in front of the door. She glowers at it with beady, Elvish eyes. “Locked. You said it was locked?”

Atheinah frowns. “Felt like it was locked, yeah. Don’t know why it would be locked from the outside, but—yeah.”

Suddenly, a smile as hot as the Paladin’s heavenfire flashes across Eyma’s face. That’s the first time she’s genuinely smiled this whole game, I think. “I can handle locks! Just give me a minute!”

“You don’t have a minute,” Belak’kwil says.

“Fine, then give me thirty seconds! Time me!” Eyma kneels and slips her equipment pack off past her shoulders. She rifles through the contents and pulls out a tiny, black box that, when opened, reveals a multitude of strangely-colored utensils of varying sizes and girths. She chooses one quickly, then slips it into the lock below the door’s handle.

At Aphollo’s questioning look, she grins, “Remember what I said about working with the Royal Guard? Proficiency with thieves’ tools are a valuable commodity!” She returns to the task at hand. “Now, give me twenty seconds. No, fifteen!”

The spiders are near. They scurry from the wall onto the ledge itself, all four of them—clicking their teeth together.

“Oh.” Belak’kwil snaps his fingers. “Paladin-dono.”

“What?” Aphollo steps back, sidling up against the door itself. So too do Truth and Atheinah.

“Oi! You’re getting in my way!” Eyma gripes.

“About the Bard’s paralysis.” Belak’kwil joins the cluster. There are way too many bodies pressed up against one another, and everybody’s _wet_ —it’s disgusting. “That is indeed what he’s suffering from. Paralysis.”

“Your point?”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why have you not cured him yet?” Belak’kwil narrows his eyes. “‘Lay on Hands’ can also heal status effects, as I recall you mentioning. Not that I didn’t enjoy lugging his lifeless body around, but I’m curious.”

Aphollo looks up at Belak’kwil.

He looks down at Klavi’or.

He looks up at Belak’kwil.

Then he screams: “Oh my god, I completely _forgot_!”

“Having too much fun, were you…?”

Aphollo’s grip tightens, and his hands glow dimly. He peers at Klavi’or’s face, watching for the vaguest signs of consciousness.

They appear. Klavi’or’s eyelids flutter, before creaking open to reveal cool blue eyes. Color floods his lips and his cheeks, and Aphollo can feel him growing warm against his chest.

He meets his gaze. Aphollo’s lips contort into an odd, wrinkled shape.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Klavi’or says, words muddy, “I would think you wanted an excuse to hold me.”

Aphollo thinks about this.

“Playing knight-in-shining-armor is pretty fun,” he admits. “Not like you would know.”

Klavi’or chuckles breathily. “I assure you, there’s nothing more fun than sitting here in complete silence, waiting for somebody to remember that he could heal me at any time.”

“Well ex _cuse_ me, Princess, but who was the one who went back to save your butt?”

“Ah, yes. From those, correct?” Klavi’or swings his head in the direction of the spiders, which are now—ah, yes, five feet away.

“FIVE FEET?”

Atheinah gives Eyma’s shoulders a rap with her knuckles. “Uh, Eyma. Eyma Eyma Eyma. You should hurry.”

“I’m working on it! If you rush me, then it’s not going to work!”

All six of them press as far as they can into the wall (except Klavi’or, still draped in Aphollo’s arms—he only ends up pressing more into Aphollo’s chest).

“Eyma,” Truth says, “please hurry!”

“All of you, shut up! I’m trying to enjoy myself with a little bit of lock-picking action, and you’re all seriously raining on my parade!”

“The spiders are most certainly a problem, though.”

The spiders shriek.

“Yeah, and—hey, _ouch_! Aphollo, you stepped on my foot!”

“Me? I didn’t do anything! I’m way over here!”

“It was definitely you! I could tell because of all that extra weight you’re packing!”

“You could put me down, Herr Paladin.”

“Don’t put him _down_! It’s already too crowded over here!”

“What do you want from me, then?!”

“Guys, could we maybe stop with the yelling?”

“If Paladin-dono wants to hold his Bard, then I say we let him.”

“You know, it stops being funny the millionth time you hear the joke!”

“But it’s so _easy_.”

“Listen, buddy—!”

“Ach—! Don’t _drop_ me!”

Thoron squawks.

“Ouch! Okay, somebody definitely stepped on me that time!”

“Can your bird get out of my face for _one_ second?”

“Are you insinuating something negative about Thoron? How dare—”

“Why do you even have a bird to begin with? Is it really that—”

“Seriously, stop _squishing_ me—!”

“We’re going to die, aren’t we? This is it! Taken down by a bunch of stupid bugs—!”

The spiders shriek. Again.

“Well, maybe if somebody hadn’t split the party—”

“Hey! It may have been my idea, but it was all Apollo’s—”

“I already apologized for that, but if you’re going to keep holding it over my head, then damn it, I’ll—”

“Could you be any more melodramatic—”

“Stop fighting—!”

“Oh, I’ll give you a fight—”

“ _Got it_!”

And, just like that, the stone on which all six-ish people are leaning gives way as the door flings open.

Each and every one of them trips and tumbles down the rocky mountainside, blessed by the fiery rays of final sunlight. And oh, despite the skin-shaving, dirt-flavored pain, does it feel good to see the sun again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, sorry for the radio silence! I've been in hell. Exams are next week, and I'm so not prepared... and then I have one week off before summer school starts. But I have so many video games I want to play...! Persona 5, Mario Kart, Puyo Puyo, my terrible Duel Links obsession, D&D... I'm not good at managing my priorities, yeesh.
> 
> We're out of that session, hurray! My god, I can't remember the last time we were out. I kind of rushed this out just so we could be *done*, so... sorry if it seems a tad clunky. we're in the final stretch now, though! Though there'll be a D&D finale, I promise.
> 
> I hope you guys do well on your exams, if you have them! If not, I hope your campaigns are going swimmingly! And thank you so much for reading -- you're all so wonderful!


	20. Chapter 20

Mr. Wright paused for a solid minute before speaking again. “At least, I’d imagine it would feel good. For everybody save the Drow, that is.”

Blackquill scoffed. “I thrive beneath the world’s crust. Surface dwellers are spineless creatures.”

“Judging by how that session went, I’d be inclined to agree.” Mr. Wright folded up his DM’s screen. His eyes were streaked bloodshot red, and his stylish hair was undone from where he had been tugging at it in hysteric distress.

Apparently, they were done.

“That felt longer than usual,” Apollo said to nobody in particular.

“We did start earlier than normal,” said Trucy. She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Aaah… it was fun, though! I’m glad everybody made it out alive!”

“I concur,” Klavier said. He was still spread jelly-boned on his stomach, chin propped up by his hands. He had stayed that way the entire session, except for the occasional flailing into Apollo’s lap. For dramatic effect, he had explained.

Apollo felt bad about that. “Sorry for not reviving you sooner. It would’ve been a lot easier if I had remembered my character’s abilities.”

“Nein, nein!” Klavier shook his head. “You saved me! If you hadn’t come back, I don’t think Herr Bard would’ve made it. I was about to turn in my character sheet.” He grinned—stellar, starry, stupid. “ _Danke_ , Apollo.”

Apollo avoided his gaze. He was torn between two conflicting emotions in that hazy midnight moment: glee at seeing Klavier so enthralled with him, and an uninhibited rage directed towards one toady-faced, blue-suited lawyer.

Mr. Wright noticed Apollo staring, and his smile only grew slimier. “What’s the matter, Apollo? You look beat. And beet. Beet-red, that is.”

Apollo had figured out Mr. Wright’s master plan right around the time his Paladin had been hanging by a literal thread. The answer was simple, once he accounted for Mr. Wright’s passive-aggressive behavior from the past couple of weeks.

“ _It’s not you I’m worried about_ ,” he had said to Trucy.

“ _I was taught that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say it at all_.”

“ _Prosecutor Gavin? Really_.”

All of the evidence indicated one theory. All Apollo had left to puzzle out was his motive for doing so, but….

He looked over to Klavier, who had since sat up and was now engaged in a lively conversation with Trucy. She was attempting to apologize for leaving him behind, but he wouldn’t give her the chance—he kept cutting her off with sweet smiles and playful jabs with his elbow. She eventually gave up with the apology and devolved into giggling.

…He had a pretty good idea of what that motive was.

“Awesome as always, Mr. Wright,” Athena said. “Heheh. I suppose you want us all out of the office now, don’t you?”

“You read my mind.” Mr. Wright stood up from his desk, pushing in the chair. “Let’s leave the office like this, shall we? We can deal with it in the morning. I don’t think I have the willpower to do any heavy-lifting right now.”

“You wouldn’t do any heavy-lifting anyway, Daddy! You always make Polly do it!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Apollo swore that Mr. Wright was purposely trying to annoy him. No man could be that aggravating without being at least moderately self-aware of it.

Everybody slogged to their feet, joints popping. Athena offered her complimentary ride, which both Blackquill and Ema both accepted on account of being too tired to walk home. That ought to be a fun experience: Athena, Blackquill, and Ema cramped into an ancient, bright-yellow Volkswagen Beetle. What Apollo would give to be a fly on the wall in _that_ clown car….

“You’re biking home, then?” Klavier asked him. “I can give you a ride, too. I brought my car—we can put your bike in the back.”

Apollo wondered if Klavier had driven his car specifically for such an occasion. He then wondered when _bringing the motorcycle_ had transitioned into _bringing the car_ , simply on the off-chance that Apollo would take him up on his offer.

“Tempting,” Apollo said, “but I’ll have to pass. I, uh—I have to talk to Mr. Wright about something.”

Mr. Wright must’ve heard his name, for he perked up. He scratched at his chin.

“Hey, Athena,” Mr. Wright said. “Do you mind giving Trucy a ride? She should be getting home, but I don’t want her walking alone this time of night.”

“Huh?” Trucy frowned. “Daddy, are we not walking home together?”

“I would, sweetie, but I need to hang back for a few minutes.”

She glanced between her father and Apollo, her brow furrowing deep.

“No fighting,” she warned with a waggle of her finger.

Mr. Wright smiled wryly. “Nothing of the sort, I promise.”

Apollo couldn’t say the same.

“No sweat, Mr. Wright! Anything for you!” Athena flashed her boss a peace sign. “I’ll have Simon walk her to the door and everything! Nobody’ll mess with her while he’s by her side!”

“They would be a fool to do so,” Blackquill affirmed.

“Great. Thanks, Athena.” _Now skedaddle_ , Mr. Wright’s smile said.

Athena caught the look, nodded her head, and gestured for her posse of three. “Okay everyone, roll out! I hope you all have gas money, or else I’m kicking you onto the street!”

“I have snacks,” said Ema.

“I will accept payment in snacks, yes!”

“I have magic tricks!”

“Also satisfactory!”

“I have my gratitude.”

“ _Unacceptable_! What do you think I am, some kind of charity service?”

The chattering four left the room with cheerful farewells. Klavier straggled behind them, hesitant.

“Are you sure about the ride?” he asked again with rucked lips. “I worry about you biking by yourself this late in the evening.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Apollo saw Mr. Wright roll his eyes. Klavier missed it—either that, or he had the guts not to care.

“I’m fine,” Apollo said, keeping his gaze trained on Mr. Wright. “But that reminds me: there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Klavier’s muscles tensed. “Yes, _mein liebe_?”

“Do you want to grab lunch sometime next week?”

Mr. Wright and Klavier both dropped their jaws slack. For completely opposite reasons, Apollo would think.

Klavier was the first to recover his bearings. “A-ach. Is that a serious question?”

Apollo scowled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m shocked!” He tugged at his bangs. Apollo could see golden-yellow strands rip clean from his head, and he winced at the sight. Didn’t that hurt? “In a good way, though! I never imagined that you would be so… forward!”

“Problem?” Apollo asked.

“Nein, of course not! It’s no problem! No problem at all!”

Okay—admittedly, it was a lot of fun to watch Klavier squirm like that. He kind of understood why Klavier was so quick to tease.

Klavier kept sneaking anxious glances at Mr. Wright, but he didn’t linger on him for too long. He was too caught up in searching Apollo’s face—for signs of debauchery, Apollo assumed. “What… erm, when in the week? I have—well, I work during the week, of course… as I know you do as well, but—whenever you have time, make sure to—”

“I’ll text you.” Apollo crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Sound good?”

“Good? Why, Apollo—you’ve made my whole night! Nein, my whole week!”

“It’s just lunch.” Besides, when Apollo inevitably breached what he wanted to talk about, he couldn’t see Klavier being very happy about it.

He thought back to Athena and Blackquill, sitting in that stuffy hallway.

_It never hurts to talk. Words are humanity’s greatest ally._

He hoped they were right.

“Even so,” Klavier said, smile kind, “I’m glad. I feel like….” He got distracted by something else in the room—the plant, maybe. “…Ach, never mind. If I’m allowed to talk too much this late at night, I might wind up saying something embarrassing.”

“I know what you mean,” said Apollo. “I'll talk to you later, okay?”

Klavier successfully received his signal to scram. He nodded his head and inched towards the door.

“Ja, baby. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He winked. “ _Gute Nacht_ , Apollo. Herr Wright.” Then he slipped out, politely closing the door behind him.

And then there were two.

Mr. Wright was quick on the offense. “You’re not ‘Herr Forehead’ anymore? Shame. I thought it was a cute nickname.”

“What the _fuck_ , Mr. Wright?”

There went his job security.

“Watch your language, young man.”

“So are you going to tell me what you were doing back there,” Apollo said, reaching for his bracelet, “or am I going to have to pry it out of you?”

Mr. Wright snorted. “Are you going to find my tell? I was the one who taught you how to do that, you know.”

“Yes, and Trucy taught you.”

A twinge of what looked to be _guilt_ flared across Mr. Wright’s face. Apollo would’ve wondered why, if he hadn’t been so angry with him.

“…Well, there’s no need for that.” Mr. Wright tucked his folder underneath his armpit, then settled down on top of the desk. Its legs wobbled at the weight. “If you have something you want to talk about, all you have to do is ask.”

Apollo’s eyebrows scrunched together. “So we’re playing this game, then.”

“You know me. Can’t resist a good game of poker.”

Sadly, Apollo wasn’t much in the mood for games. He had had his fill for the evening.

“You intentionally tried to kill Klavier tonight, didn’t you?” He scrutinized the lines in Mr. Wright’s face and the subtle shaking in his fingers, trying to pinpoint any sort of tell. If Mr. Wright let his guard down for even a second, he would be able to catch it. If his boss wanted to spin his web of lies, then fine—Apollo would unravel every last one of them. He owed it to himself, to Klavier.

“Yeah.”

“A likely story!” Apollo said, extending his arm and pointing with his index finger. “You can try to lie, but mark my words, I’ll expose you for—wait.”

Mr. Wright smirked. “Yes, Apollo?”

He curled his arm back towards himself. “You… admit it? What?”

“Yes, I admit it. I was trying to off him. Five is the perfect amount for a party, but six?” Mr. Wright scratched the back of his neck. “Six is a crowd, don’t you think?”

“Are you serious?”

“Please, Apollo. When have you ever known me _not_ to be serious?”

Apollo was reminded of that fateful day two years ago, during his first trial as a fully-fledged defense attorney. It had been one whirlwind of a case, but he had managed to come out on top—though only because of evidence provided by a mysterious, silk-hatted girl. Evidence that turned out to be forged by a condescending, beanie-wearing defendant. Apollo had flown into such a rage when he found out, he had punched him hard across the jaw.

He was overwhelmed by the urge to do it again.

“Now, now,” Mr. Wright said, gaze trained on Apollo’s clenching fists, “I was just kidding. Sorry! I can see you’re not in a joking mood.”

“Mr. Wright, it’s midnight. I get up in five hours. Do you think I would bother sticking around if I wasn’t serious?”

“Do you not value our friendship enough to pal around for the heck of it?”

“You’re my boss.”

“So that’s a no on the lunch date later this week, then?”

Apollo stared at him.

Mr. Wright stared back, still smiling. “I suppose none of my jokes are landing today.”

“You suppose right.”

“Okay, okay.” Mr. Wright leaned back onto the desk. He patted the open inch of wood next to his ass, as if inviting Apollo to sit next to him. He declined with a squint of his eyes. “No more jokes, I promise. What were you accusing me of, again?”

“Trying to kill Klavier.”

“Ah, that’s right—I _was_ trying to kill him,” he admitted. “You tried so hard to get him back, though, so I cut you some slack. You know, I originally planned for some Black Puddings to crawl out of that pool towards the end, but I didn’t want you _all_ to die.”

“Just one of us, right?”

“In my defense, you were the one who split the party.”

“That shouldn’t have had anything to do with it! Why did you want him dead in the first place?”

“Why do you think?”

“Mr. Wright, please.”

“If you have a theory in mind, prove it.” Mr. Wright crossed one leg up over the other. “I thought I taught you that if you want to accuse somebody, you need the evidence to back it up.”

_Evidence is everything_.

Apollo wondered if Mr. Wright knew who he sounded like.

“You want to hear my theory?” Apollo asked. He closed his eyes and pushed a finger into the middle of his forehead. “Okay, here’s my theory: you don’t like him.”

“A shrewd deduction.”

“Nine years ago, a smarmy, seventeen-year-old rock star prosecutor waltzed onto the scene and stripped you of your badge under false pretenses. Of _course_ you don’t like him.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t his fault,” Mr. Wright said as a counter. “Do you think I’m petty enough to hold that against him?”

Apollo wasn’t sure.

“It’s a combination of a lot of things, really. The disbarment—I’m not going to lie and say that it doesn’t bother me. The fact that he’s related to a monster… that bothers me, too.” Mr. Wright was as calm and collected as ever. It pissed Apollo off. “I’m not completely comfortable with him, no. But, even so, I let him play with us. I didn’t turn him away.”

“Like you could’ve. You weren’t aware he was coming until he was already on his way.”

“If I really didn’t want to see him,” Mr. Wright said with a smirk, “I would’ve figured something out.”

Apollo had to ask, “Then what changed? What made you decide that you didn’t want him around anymore?”

“You.”

He expected that.

“In retrospect, I realize that it wasn’t very mature of me. The thought of you two being so friendly, despite everything that happened in the past—well.” The smile fled from his face, and he raised his head to meet Apollo’s gaze straight-on. “It bothered me. Because no, I _don’t_ like Klavier Gavin. It’s partially his fault: I don’t like his narcissism, his music, or the fact that he’s constantly flirting with y—erm, my daughter.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem—but mostly, the blame is on me. I see him, and he reminds me of Kristoph. He always will.” He shrugged. “So yes: as you correctly presumed, I really am that petty.”

And _bam_ , there it was: not a trick, not a lie, but a definite tell. Mr. Wright reached into his pocket to fiddle with something resting inside, averting eye contact with a vacant expression. Apollo’s bracelet didn’t react, but he didn’t need it to.

He was ashamed. He didn’t _want_ to be angry at Klavier—why would he? You didn’t need a law degree to know that Klavier was a nice guy that didn’t deserve half the crap that life had thrown at him.

Apollo wasn’t blame-free, either. Of course he found his brain drifting back to Kristoph— _of course_.

But he didn’t listen to his brain—he listened to his heart. And in his heart, Apollo knew that Klavier was a different man from his brother; for when Apollo witnessed one of his bell-like giggles or his huge, stupid smiles, his brain stopped functioning entirely. The blood pumping in his ears and the soul-shaking sounding in his chest made it impossible to listen to anything else.

“I’m sorry, Apollo,” Mr. Wright said, breaking the silence that had begun to accrue between them. “I thought that if I could take away the thing you two used to reconnect, I could stop myself from being reminded of that time. It was selfish of me. I abused my position of power, both as your boss and as your—hah—as your Dungeon Master.” He laughed, and his voice cracked. Apollo couldn’t recall hearing his voice break like that before—Mr. Wright always sounded so confident, even in his lowest of times. “You know, hearing me say my master plan out loud—I sound like a villain, don’t I?”

“No. You sound like a little kid.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been demoted.”

“Mr. Wright.” Apollo’s words rang gently. “I’m glad you admitted the truth, but you don’t have to be embarrassed by it. I mean, you should definitely be apologetic, but you don’t have to look so… urgh, _sad_.”

Mr. Wright’s big, puppy-dog eyes met Apollo’s. God, how could anybody stay mad at those? So captivating, with their two different shades… maybe they helped out with winning all of his cases.

“You should probably punch me,” he said.

“Oh my god.”

“But if you don’t want to take me up on that offer, I have something else in mind.” The smile was back. Thank goodness. “I promise not to be difficult anymore.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Apollo.

“Difficult in relation to Gavin, I mean. You’re right—I can’t stop being difficult altogether. It’s part of my charm!”

“Save your charm for Mr. Edgeworth, sir.”

Mr. Wright laughed from deep within his chest. It was a hearty sound, one that made Apollo’s heart smolder. (His eyes, his voice—they were both weapons unto themselves. He couldn’t imagine what facing against him in court must’ve been like… he was grateful he would never find out.)

 “I’ll think of something to make it up to you in the campaign,” he said after recovering from his spell of laughter. “Something silly. I think you all deserve it after that train wreck. Though, hmm… I don’t know how I’ll fit it in—next week is the last time we’ll get to play.”

“You make it sound like you’re going to be staying… there, permanently.”

“I hope not. It’s only for a little while, but I wouldn’t want to leave in the middle of a campaign. By the time I come back, you’ll all have forgotten what happened!” Mr. Wright slid off the edge of the desk, to his feet.

Apollo quirked a flared brow. “You expect us to finish the entire campaign next week?”

“I have faith in you all. You, especially! I’m sure you’ll keep all the goofballs on track.”

He doubted it.

Mr. Wright began moving towards the door, which Apollo took as his cue to follow. The two of them walked out of the office, side-by-side, with Mr. Wright flipping off the lights and shutting the door behind him.

“So,” he said as he fiddled with the lock, “we cool?”

“ _Cool_?” Apollo repeated with a wrinkle of his nose.

“You know, coolio. Tight. Chill. Trill—”

“I’m going to need you to stop.”

But even so, Apollo didn’t bother hiding the small smile that had taken residence on his face. Phoenix Wright was trying—and after all that had happened to him involving Gavins and badges and poison, Apollo was amazed he still could.

“Yeah,” he said, “we’re cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoaaAAA, IT'S NOT SUNDAY! Think of this as a Memorial Day miracle!! I hope you're all enjoying the day off -- presuming you're a student in America, that is. I mean, a student who has summer school. I have summer school. It sucks.
> 
> Sorry for the late update! I don't have an excuse. I'm just lazy, ahaha...haaaaaaaa. And jeez, this isn't even the Date chapter, jeez -- sorry for being such a tease. Next update, I promise! For sure!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate all of your comments and clicks so, so much!!


	21. Chapter 21

The date Apollo and Klavier settled on turned out to be Wednesday afternoon. With the Crawlnober case wrapped up, the Wright Anything Agency found themselves out of work and back to cleaning the toilet—and with Mr. Wright leaving for Khura’in on Saturday evening (wow, had that much time passed already?), they weren’t likely to pick up any new cases any time soon.

Klavier’s schedule was more hectic than Apollo’s, but some world-class smarming to the Chief Prosecutor earned him some personal time off. Apollo wondered if that was due to Klavier’s natural charm, or if Prosecutor Edgeworth was just that soft on his workers.

“He’s softer than you would think,” Klavier said, sending Apollo a sideways smile. “Softer than the last Chief Prosecutor, anyway. He’s strict when it comes to punishing corrupt prosecutors, but… if you’re a decent human being, he treats you fairly.” He playfully bumped into Apollo’s hip with his own. “He likes me.”

Apollo rolled his eyes. “I have trouble believing that.”

“I’m a hard worker. What’s there to doubt?”

“Your style and Prosecutor Edgeworth’s… kind of conflict.”

“Ja. But he still acquiesced to my request, didn’t he?”

“Probably because you’d whine if you didn’t get your way.”

“I would scoff at that, but… ach, it’s the truth. You know me so well.”

As Apollo didn’t feel ready to cross the emotional threshold of riding in any of Klavier’s vehicles (when he had hesitantly texted Klavier to ask if it would be possible to get a ride, the response of, “ _ja, i’ll go warm up the McLaren ;)_ ” made him promise himself to never ask about rides ever again), they decided that their outing would be in walking distance. Unfortunately, Klavier had led them astray, straight into a part of town Apollo wasn’t familiar with. Not a shady or high-end part of town, but foreign enough to make Apollo feel out of his element.

“So you’re choosing the restaurant, then?” Apollo asked cautiously, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He didn’t recognize any of the signs stamped onto the buildings around him, except for the occasional coffee or burger chain.

“Hmm?” Klavier blinked at him. Despite the temperature being pleasant, he was wearing a heavy purple jacket, dipping low enough to reveal his collarbone and cut high enough to expose his belly-button. Either be cold or warm, Apollo grumbled to himself—don’t wear such a heavy coat if you’re planning on revealing that much skin.

“I’m afraid I don’t know my way around this part of town.” Klavier scratched his cheek. “I thought we would run into something that suited the both of us, ja?”

There were a lot of restaurants around, sure, but Apollo didn’t feel drawn to any one above the others. He wasn’t a picky eater.

Incidentally, Klavier was also not a picky eater.

That left them at quite the impasse—Apollo didn’t want to choose something Klavier wasn’t a fan of, and he didn’t have the courage to ask what he actually _liked_. Maybe he would feel more comfortable during lunch itself, but… in his current state of limbo, nope. He didn’t have the guts. He wished that Klavier would take initiative, but the twiddling of his bangs implied that he was just as uncomfortable as—if not more so than—Apollo.

What a pair they made. Oh, this outing was going _spectacularly_. He wondered how they compared to Simon and Athena.

The two wandered for at least half an hour. Apollo should’ve been getting grumpy with hunger, but the more he dwelled on the sheer stupidity of their inabilities to make a simple decision, the more his stomach knotted and the less hungry he became. He was more nauseous than anything else.

“Hmm,” Klavier said, tossing his braid back over his shoulder. “I’m not that hungry either, admittedly.”

Apollo wondered how Klavier knew about his inner dialogue. Maybe he really was that transparent.

He snorted and returned to surveying the surrounding buildings. Yet another coffee shop, a pizzeria, a sushi shop. Oh god, the thought of food was going to make him hurl… why was he feeling so nervous, anyway? He had been fine before! Jeez, Klavier was going to kill him!

Well, maybe they could do something besides eat?

He focused on the non-restaurant shops, praying that there was something of interest. He wasn’t having much luck—antique shop (yawn), barber (oh god no), movie theater (oh, that was just cheesy)—until….

“Hey,” Apollo said, nudging Klavier with his elbow, “do you like comics?”

The sudden question after the minutes of palpable silence made Klavier jolt to attention. “Comics? Ah, ja—I suppose. Who doesn’t?”

Thank goodness. Though it wasn’t like Klavier was the type to say _no_ , even if he did happen to despise comics. He was probably just as grateful as Apollo was for some sort of diversion.

“Good,” Apollo said. “Maybe we’ll work up an appetite as we’re browsing.”

Wedged in between a jeweler and a boba tea house was a comic book shop of larger-than-average size. It didn’t have a name, other than the bright-yellow word “COMICS” branded above the door, and the front windows were plastered with giant stickers of posing characters. Apollo recognized most of them—the Steel Samurai, the Nickel Samurai… a lot of samurais. Mr. Wright would’ve had a heart attack.

Whatever, _whatever_! Stop dawdling, Justice! This was an executive decision, damn it! Who cared if it was lame, or if Klavier thought it was lame—at least it was something! Better than wandering the streets like lost dogs for another hour.

He hurried into the shop. Klavier had to jog to keep up with him.

 

* * *

 

The scent of musk and ink struck Apollo’s palette the moment he stepped in through the doors. Odd, he thought—he hadn’t imagined a comic shop to be so busy. He could see that, set up on the opposite side of the store, were long tables, sitting at which were at least a dozen people. It must’ve doubled as a gaming shop: the people gathered (mostly men, he noted) all had some variety of cards, boards, or grids laid out in front of them.

Klavier arrived at his side. He was sticking pretty close—maybe he felt out of place? He certainly looked out of place: Klavier was a walking model of high-fashion and beauty, completely contrasting with the gangly nerds wearing graphic t-shirts with references Apollo didn’t understand.

“What a cute little place,” he said, absorbing the atmosphere. “Could do with some air freshener, though.”

To their immediate right were shelves upon shelves of both comic books and board games, interlaid with one another in a pattern Apollo couldn’t decipher. To their left was a glass counter, as well as a few employees shuffling behind it.

Apollo grabbed Klavier’s arm and ducked into the comics section, quick to avoid the glance of any employees.

“Ach—!” Klavier stumbled after him. “What are you doing—?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Apollo let go of Klavier, then hastily picked up the nearest comic in reach: an issue of Pink Princess. The cover seemed to imply that it was some sort of spinoff, featuring the Pink Princess and her merry misadventures as a normal high school girl. How boring—why would you trade all of the high-stakes action-adventure for teenage drama…?

“Reading a comic made for little girls?” Klavier guessed.

The neon pink and bubbly letters would lend itself to that theory.

“I’ve never been much of a Pink Princess fan,” Apollo admitted as he set the comic back down. “I don’t like any of the samurai. My—uh—friends liked them. But they’re not my thing.”

“Oh?” Klavier plucked the comic up for himself and flipped through the pages. A smile tugged at his lips as he scanned through the dialogue. “My, this is adorable. How could you not like it?”

“Okay, well—first off, that’s a spinoff,” Apollo said, as if stating the obvious (which he kind of was—who didn’t know about the Pink Princess?). “Secondly, it’s not that I don’t like those kinds of comics. I just….” He paused and pursed his lips.

Klavier glanced up from the pink pages to look at him.

“I’ve always liked the Jammin’ Ninja more.”

He must have found some sort of bizarre humor in that, for his smile slunk into a sleazy, half-pulled smirk.

“Is that so?” he asked, setting the comic back into its original spot. “I have to say, I’m fond of him as well. Fighting crime with the power of music—a romantic concept, don’t you think?”

“His guitar is red,” Apollo said.

Klavier’s smirk only sullied further.

“A-and he’s cooler than any of the Global Studios characters!” Oh god, this was a pitiful defense. He should’ve chosen a different profession—a baker, a professional toilet-cleaner, _anything_. “The Steel Samurai just stabs things! The Jammin’ Ninja uses his wit to overcome his problems! And he doesn’t solve everything with violence, either—he actually takes the time to talk things out!”

“I understand,” Klavier said, slinking his hands onto his hips. “In fact, I agree with you. He’s a cool guy.”

“Yes—yes, but that look on your face….” Apollo clenched his hands into fists. “That’s the face of somebody who has the _seriously wrong idea_!”

“Wrong idea? About what? You have good taste, that’s all.”

“That’s not— _uungh_!”

Klavier laughed that high-pitched giggle of his. Apollo had been hearing that a lot lately—but just because it had become common didn’t mean it was any less weird. Not weird in a bad way, though; it was… nice. Sweet.

Apollo shimmied past Klavier into the corner of the racks and pretended to be interested in the titles (anything to stop that conversation in its tracks). However, he had accidentally wedged himself right between the “new releases”—featuring titles he had vague knowledge of, but not enough to know what the hell was going on—and “Just for Kids!”—featuring cars with weirdly detailed faces, along with candy-colored ponies with smiles that gave him the creeps. Oh, and more Steel Samurai.

Apollo grabbed a new release and skimmed through the pages. He watched Klavier out of the corner of his eye; he had looked like he was going to follow him into his corner, but he changed his mind and instead wandered off to another rack. He set his finger on the spines of the books and scanned through them, as if searching for something. What on earth would he be looking for? Did _Klavier Gavin_ seriously read comic books?

Apollo tore his eyes away and focused on the book in front of him. He recognized the characters: they had made some blockbuster movies about them some years ago, if he remembered correctly: “CIVIL WAR: SEVENTEEN.” He would’ve thought that the “civil war” concept would’ve gotten old after the first couple of times, but there were enough readers to warrant seventeen of the things—so what did he know?

Apollo tried to follow the story within the pages, to little avail. He suddenly remembered why he didn’t read many comic books—they were horrendously convoluted. At least Jammin’ Ninja had a TV show he could binge watch—with comics, it was so much more complicated.

He remembered Clay trying to introduce him to one of his favorite series once and how ridiculous the endeavor had been. The explanation, as well as Clay’s vigor, was still ingrained into his brain: okay, so there were six main issues, see, but the first three were part of one cohesive trilogy, while the fourth was supposed to start its own trilogy… but that fell through, right, so the fifth one retconned everything and introduced, like, six new characters who cramped everybody else’s style—and oh, then there were two spinoff issues focusing on a redeemed antagonist, which Clay totally recommended even though neither fit into the main canon.

When the most recent issue had come out, Clay had been super pissed off—poor characterization on the part of a new writer, apparently, and his favorite character had been written off. Apollo remembered his whining perfectly: “The location was totally lame, too! Why do I care about this stupid country we’ve never heard of before? And I can’t believe they gave him such a stupid backstory! He already had a fine backstory, and they retconned the whole thing! Argh—Apollo, I’m going to write them an angry letter! And I’m gonna fill it with glitter, so when they open it—BAM, baby! Glitter, all over their crappy script for the seventh issue! Assuming they’re working on the seventh issue… they’re focusing on that spinoff right now—you know, the one that takes place in Meiji-era Japan? Haha, I know I’ve explained this to you before, but it’s super funny so I’m gonna say it again: so, like, the comic is originally Japanese, right? But when they translated it into English, they localized all of the names and locations and stuff so it takes place in America! But with this new issue, it doesn’t make much sense in that localized continuity. They didn’t even bother translating them! Personally, I think they should own up to their mistakes and translate the thing as—”

“Hey, Apollo. Want to see something neat?”

Apollo had been so wrapped up in his memories, he hadn’t noticed Klavier materializing beside him. He nearly jumped out of his skin and, in the same movement, nearly knocked over the rack he was standing next to. He grappled for it and, luckily, managed to steady it before it could topple over—though it did scrape the ground with an ugly-sounding _screech_.

“Wh- _what_?” he stuttered, clutching the metal shelf in between his bone-white hands. From in between the shelves, he could see that several of the game-players had turned around to see the source of the noise. He shrank and tried to cover his face.

Klavier ignored the klutzy screw-up entirely. When Apollo looked up at him, he saw that he had a few comic books tucked under his arm and a single issue in his hands.

“I was surprised they had these here,” he admitted as he twiddled the corner of the flimsy book. “The run stopped years ago, and I don’t think they were ever our most popular branch of media. But they’re pretty cool, don’t you think?”

He spun the book around to show Apollo the cover, in all of its glory.

In all of its… purple glory.

“ _The Gavinners, in: Police State Armageddon: Operation Objection_ ,” Apollo read. The font reminded him of a biker gang or car club logo. Below the title was the main image: a glorious illustration of a hellfire-ravaged cliff, licked by purple flames and struck by pink bolts of lightning, standing on which were a group of five exceptionally beautiful young men carrying an assortment of colorful instruments. The man in the front of the group had a flaming red guitar swung around his body, and his blonde locks were flowing dramatically in the breeze.

Apollo looked up at the man the illustration had tried so desperately to capture. “The Gavinners had a comic?”

Klavier nodded. “Ja, ja! It started running when we first became big and only ended with the band broke up. See?” He held the book up to his face and pressed it against his cheek, then mimicked the expression of his comic-self: coy wink, peace sign over his left eye, tongue sticking out. “This copy is a few years old. I had shorter hair back then, ja?”

“So you did.” In the image, Klavier’s hair wasn’t tied into a braid—it fell freely over his shoulders in curling ringlets. He wondered if Klavier had ever actually looked like that, or if the artist was taking certain creative liberties.

“What do you think?” Klavier asked. “I look good, ja?”

“In the picture?” Apollo hummed. “You do look pretty.” Maybe too pretty; his eyes were distractingly blue, and that pose he was doing—with the peace sign and hand sassily snug into his hip… it reminded him of something, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what—wait.

“I’ve got it.” He punched a fist into his palm. “You look like a magical girl.”

Now that he saw the resemblance, he couldn’t _un_ see it. The hands, the legs, the eyes—even his hair was reminiscent of early morning girly cartoons. “By the light of the moon” stuff—yeah, the resemblance was uncanny.

He cupped his hand around his mouth and nose to hide his pig-like snorts of laughter.

Klavier glanced at the cover and tilted his head. “Magical girl? Hmm.” He did the pose again—peace sign, hand on hip. Oh god, he was going to kill Apollo if he kept that up: death by excessive laughter. Manslaughter, or first-degree murder…?

“St-stop it—!”

“I see what you mean.” Klavier waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Do you think I could pull off the sailor uniform?”

“I’m— _snnnrk_ —I’m s-serious!”

“Hmm. I think I would look good. Not all of them wear sailor uniforms either, do they? Some of them wear cuter outfits—maid uniforms, corsets, thigh highs.” He was about to make a move for his bangs, before realizing his hands were preoccupied. He settled on fussing with the pages instead. “I wouldn’t be opposed. Too bad the comic is cancelled—I would’ve liked to request something like that.”

His voice was sprinkled with the occasional giggle, but Apollo managed to form a coherent sentence: “I-I’m sure your fans would’ve liked it, too.” He wiped at his eyes—oh god, he might’ve actually shed a tear, there. “I bet you would’ve rocked it.”

“I have no doubt.”

Klavier only looked like he was half-joking. Then again, Apollo was only half-joking, too: Klavier was beautiful. He could’ve pulled off any outfit he wanted. Shame that he only used his pretty face for cow-ass pants and tacky jackets.

“What is it about?” Apollo asked, gesturing to the book. “Looks, uh, dramatic.”

“It is! The basic premise of the Gavinners comic is that the five members are a crime-fighting group, busting ne’er-do-wells using the power of the law and rock ’n’ roll.” Klavier scratched at his hairline with the corner of the book—sheepishly, it seemed. “And magic, occasionally.”

“Magic?” So would explain the purple flames.

“Ja—and time-travel, robots, and monsters. All of our instruments double as laser guns, too. Oh, and aliens sometimes get involved.” He chuckled. “It might not hurt to mention that the series takes place in a dystopian future.”

“I mean, I could’ve guessed.”

“Most of the story arcs are based on our discography, but… occasionally, the writers and artists drew inspiration from my real-life trials as well. That’s what I wanted to show you, actually.”

He exchanged the book in his hand for the one under his arm, and then held it out for Apollo to take. He couldn’t say no to that smile.

The issue was a relatively recent one—Klavier’s long hair (as well as that massive pompadour of Daryan’s) gave it away. The cover featured the two main guitar players, pressed back-to-back in mid-jump against a neon, 80’s-inspired backdrop. Apollo didn’t pay much attention to Daryan: he had trouble tearing his eyes away from Klavier. He had two fingers pressed to his cheek, one eye smugly snapped shut, and tongue out.

The artist must’ve liked that pose. Apollo could see why—it had a lot of… character.

“Open it,” Klavier chided, and Apollo obliged.

The art style within the comic itself was a little sketchier than the pretty cover, but that was to be expected: it must’ve been difficult to maintain a clean look for that many pages. He attempted to gather the basics of the story: apparently, Daryan had split off from the rest of the Gavinners in some tortured anti-hero shtick, and the rest of the group was trying to get him to come back. Comic-Klavier seemed especially torn up over it, judging by the pages upon pages of monologues and sparkling looks he was giving the reader.

“Go to the very back.”

“I’m working on it, jeez!”

Apollo flipped to the back of the comic, just as Klavier had ordered. There were a few pages of comments from the writer and artists both, thanking their audience for reading and updating them on their personal lives (did people really care about the personal lives of the writers…? Weren’t people mostly concerned with the story?). After that, there were a few more pages—these of good-quality, glossy paper.

As he turned the page, he was met with the massive single-image spread of Klavier Gavin, pointing his finger as he did in court. He was wearing his normal work attire, and an arrogant smirk clouded his features. And, on the other side of the image (specifically, on the other side of the courtroom) was his adversary, garbed in—bright—red…?

Apollo felt his heart catapult into his throat.

“This is technically the last issue ever published,” Klavier explained, his voice hazy and distant. “There was an omnibus and some short one-offs, but other than that… nein. This issue debuted after our first time in court together, ja? Unfortunately, the band broke up shortly after that, so nothing else was ever published.”

It was so _surreal_. It was a little weird to see Klavier too, but… Klavier’s face naturally lent itself to art. Apollo’s, though, did not—he was average in every way. He was short, plain, chubby in the waist and thighs.

He didn’t look anything like the hunk in the picture.

“I look like goddamn Charles Atlas,” Apollo awed.

Klavier peered over the cover. “Ah, ja. That artist likes to accentuate people’s features. She draws me the same way.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Not that you don’t look lovely to begin with.”

He had a billion things he wanted to say in response: for one, Klavier was already pretty, so it made sense to draw him as such… two, Apollo was _not_ lovely; what did he mean ‘accentuate’?

He didn’t voice any of those thoughts, though. Instead, he looked up at Klavier and forced out a terse, “Why?”

“Pardon me?”

Apollo shook the comic. “ _Why_?”

Klavier stared at him vacantly. It took him a few moments of blinking to realize what, exactly, Apollo was asking. “Ah, erm. My life is very public, you see. Fans of the band tend to be fans of my performance as a prosecutor as well. People were quite smitten with you when you faced off against me in court—even if I did lose.”

The Apollo in the image was stern-faced and angular, and his gelled hair far too pointy. Even though the picture made him look in-shape and pretty damn attractive, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being villainized.

“This is against the law, isn’t it?” Apollo asked. “This is totally infringing my right to privacy! I didn’t agree to this! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“It never came up,” Klavier said. “And, admittedly, I didn’t know of its existence until recently. I have a very limited say in extended franchising matters, and I was never a big enough fan of the comic’s interpretation of the band’s relationship to keep up with it.”

Apollo wondered if that had anything to do with the doe-eyed looks comic-Klavier and comic-Daryan had been shooting one another.

“But it’s a cute picture, wouldn’t you say?” Klavier chuckled into a curled knuckle. “Though I like the other one better.”

“Other one? There’s more—?!” Oh god, how many people had seen this? Apollo was too afraid to ask for numbers.

“Ja. There’s always two spreads from guest artists in the back of every Gavinners comic. And in this issue, both of them were inspired by you.”

Apollo regarded him warily, but Klavier’s smile never dimmed.

…Well, if every teenage girl in the entire Southern California metropolitan area had seen the picture, he might as well join them.

He turned the page.

This illustration used a much softer color palette than the last—it took him a little off-guard. Cool pinks, blues, and oranges streaked across the page: originally done in watercolor, if Apollo were to guess.

Klavier was nowhere to be seen. Rather, the picture portrayed Apollo alone, perched on the ledge of an open windowsill. One leg was swung outside, hooked over the pink plaster of a tall building, while the other was tucked beneath him. He was staring at something beyond the border of the picture, though Apollo could deduce by the colors glistening in his eyes and reflecting off the other windows that the light belonged to a sunrise.

This Apollo was much closer to the real thing: he was small and round, save for the point of his hair. Unlike the other Apollo, who had a smug, punchable expression, this one was more pensive. Sad, even. Apollo himself had seen that look in the mirror too many times to count; it was boggling how well the artist managed to capture it.

His eyes flitted to and fro, drinking in all of the detail: the subtle shading in the flower vase perched on the sill, the gleam in his smoldering eyes, the coarse texture of his hands. Eventually, his gaze landed on a fleck of text in the right-hand corner of the image.

“ _this boy looks like he has some serious emotional dungeons to navigate._ ”

The author’s note, Apollo assumed.

“I like that one,” Klavier said from Apollo’s peripheral vision. “It’s beautiful. One of the most beautiful pieces we’ve published, I think.”

It was very beautiful. “I just wish there were a different subject.”

Klavier’s voice was quiet. “Your presence is what makes it beautiful, Apollo.”

He winced. “Don’t—say stuff like that.”

Klavier regarded him thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed enough to seem scrutinizing.

“Would you like me to lie?” he asked.

Apollo caught the strangeness in his voice, but he expertly avoided the questions it posed. Not here, not now. Not in a damn comics shop. At least wait until lunch….

Yes, he knew he was procrastinating. But no, he didn’t care.

“It’s a dumb premise, anyway,” Apollo said, returning his focus to the image. “I mean, what am I even doing up there? Looks precarious. And I don’t like heights.”

Klavier’s shoulders slouched, and he released a silent puff of air.  “Is that so?” He wasn’t trying very hard to hide his disappointment.

“It’s not like a phobia or anything. It’s human nature to be scared of dangerous situations, right? I mean, that’s why bugs are scary… and water, and the dark.”

“That’s quite the long list of fears.”

“Well, everybody has them! Don’t try to tell me you’re not afraid of the dark.”

“The dark I understand—but water? I think most people would disagree with you. Is it really true that you can’t swim?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Apollo responded on reflex. As soon as the words left his lips, though, he found himself frowning: wait, when had he mentioned that he couldn’t swim? It wasn’t a secret or anything, but he couldn’t remember it coming up in casual conversation.

Klavier’s joviality resumed with another smile. “You and Herr Paladin share a lot in common, then.”

Oh. That’s right.

He didn’t think of his _Dungeons and Dragons_ character as much of a character, to be honest. He played Aphollo how he himself would act in any given situation, and….

He cringed at the memory of some of the things he had let slip. That whole Dragonborn thing, god—he hoped Klavier (and everybody else in the campaign) was stupid enough to forget about it.

Klavier batted his eyelashes. “Though I understand the fear at its core. I’ve recently developed an aversion to open flame, myself.” He threaded his fingers through his bangs. “I suppose Herr Bard isn’t a fan of Fräulein Witch’s fire tricks.”

“It’s only playing pretend, at the end of the day,” Apollo said. “He doesn’t have to be you.”

“If I’ve learned anything from music, Apollo, it’s that people write what they know.”

They held eye contact for a couple of long moments. Apollo felt his heart swell to fill his mouth.

Of course Klavier wasn’t stupid. Apollo couldn’t remember a time when he had _been_ stupid.

This was getting ridiculous.

“Speaking of _Dungeons and Dragons_ ,” Klavier said, being the first to secede from the silence, “I spied some striking dice in that glass cabinet over there when we first walked in. It might be nice to pick up my own personal set, ja?”

“The campaign ends this Friday,” Apollo said.

“We may play again. It’s not like Herr Wright is staying in Khura’in permanently, ja?”

“I certainly hope not. I’m not paying for the Agency’s rent.”

Klavier’s smile broadened. “Shall we peruse their wares? You may see a set that calls to you. Here—if you see one you like, I’ll buy it for you.”

“No thanks.”

“Then how about I buy you a Gavinners comic?” Klavier rapped on the book still spread in Apollo’s hands. “It’s a ravishing image of you! You deserve to keep it.”

Apollo pulled the book away and shoved it back onto a random shelf. “No thanks.”

“So modest! Very well, I’ll buy you a different one. I mean, I look stunning in pretty much every issue, so take your pick.”

“How about this,” Apollo said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I’ll let you buy me lunch, so long as you shut up.”

Klavier giggled. Oh god, the giggle.

“Deal,” he said, “but I still want to look at the dice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello!! How has your summer been going? I hope it's truckin' along well -- I know that I've been playing a lot more D&D recently because everybody's finally free! If you want to start a campaign, make sure to do it before summer's over!
> 
> Clay is dead and not really technically in the story at all, but he still has the longest line of dialogue thus far, I think. Dang, Clay. Can't be stopped.  
> I play D&D a lot in card/comic/game shops, so I thought I would pay tribute to that by at least having Klavier and Apollo visit one! (Make sure to support your local game shop, guys! Who knows, you might even make a new friend!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! It means so, so, so much to me -- all of your positive comments and kudos make me all teary-eyed... thank you so, so much!


End file.
